


And Through It All

by EllaStorm



Series: Angels [1]
Category: Bandom, One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1D Reunion, Adrenaline Highs, Concerts, Drama, F/M, Fun, Making Out, Mentions of Violence, Random Celebrity Cameos, Romance, Sexy Times, Solo Artist Harry, a guitar incident, social media is hell, the tabloids are hell too, weird references to the 70s
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-09-19
Packaged: 2018-11-11 15:10:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 48,858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11151003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EllaStorm/pseuds/EllaStorm
Summary: It's not like Tris Callahan has never played big venues before - it's just that she has never played a big venue with Harry Styles before. Whom she not only admires as an artist and a person, but also feels way more attracted to than she reasonably should. Throw in some stage fright, a pumped-up stadium crowd, Harry's ridiculous dress choices; and Tris finds herself completely out of her depths. And out of her mind, for that matter. Turns out, going down on an international superstar's guitar in front of thousands of people can have interesting repercussions...[Part 1 of the "Angels" series]





	1. Going Down

**Author's Note:**

> Sadly, I couldn't find a category for Solo Harry (yet) - because, to be honest with you, this story only contains a fifth of 1D in most parts. Please don't punch me. (The other boys do get their time to shine in Chapters 14/15, so I guess I'm good.)
> 
> The idea for this sprung from my crazed imagination driving me nuts with thoughts of Harry on the adrenaline high of his life, performing solo in front of whole stadiums like he was born for it. A big thanks for the truly inspiring guitar incident I based this on goes to David Bowie and Mick Ronson (and to Jonathan Rhys Meyers and Ewan McGregor as well who decided to kill me all over again with it in "Velvet Goldmine").
> 
> Now dive in and enjoy the ride :)

It was the end of June, New York City, and Tris was going to die. Not of the heat, or of her ridiculously high heels – even though both of these things had to be considered viable causes for sudden death – but of sheer, utter, crushing stage fright. It had never been like this; she wasn’t exactly the type to be afraid of playing big venues. God, this wasn’t even the first time she’d played Madison Square since her music career had taken off like a rocket last year. But now… It felt like her insides were painfully shrinking in on themselves at the very thought of walking out on stage and singing her songs. Well – not only her songs this time. Maybe, she thought, staring at her face in the mirror, slightly pale beneath the make-up they had put on her half an hour ago, maybe that was the critical difference. She wasn’t performing alone. This was teamwork, something she didn’t know an awful lot about as a solo artist. It was new for her, uncharted territory, potentially disappointing for her fans, if she couldn’t live up to what they were expecting. And, even worse, it was also potentially disappointing for _Harry._

Harry, who had only just kicked off his very own solo career last spring; Harry, who had hired her upon one listen, who had introduced himself personally over the telephone, excited like a six-year-old at the prospect of performing with her. Harry who had sat her down for dinner with his manager and beamed at her with absolute delight on his gorgeous face, who had committed himself to her songs with the same enthusiasm he invested in his own material. Harry who was counting on her, trusting her to _not mess this up._

She closed her eyes and tried to recall her singing lessons. _If you ever go crazy before a performance, do some breathing. In. Out. Very good._ “Oh my God,” she muttered between two sets of breathing exercises. “How the fuck am I gonna do this. Fucking hell. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Cussing usually calmed her nerves – this time it only seemed to make matters worse. She went back to breathing but her thoughts were spiralling completely out of control. This was going to be a disaster. She was going to screw up, forget her lines, forget where she should go on stage, forget her goddamn piano playing abilities and go right back to that stupid little town she’d come from in the first place, out of a job, out of fans, and forever the laughing stock of the whole goddamn-

A knock on the door behind her cut her doom mongering short.

“Come in,” she said, slightly out of breath despite her best efforts.  
The door opened and, of all people who could have wanted to talk to her at this precise moment, Harry appeared in the mirror. He was wearing a black see-through shirt, tight, equally black satin trousers with some kind of rosé floral motif stretching along one side and an innumerable amount of rings on his fingers, his nails adorned with pink polish. His hair looked fashionably messy, the tips of it just short of brushing his shoulders, and his eyes were sparkling with anticipation, excitement and not even a modicum of fear. Tris had never wished so desperately to be more like him than in this moment.

“How ya doin’?" he asked and she gave it her best shot to collect herself.

“Fine,” she answered – but something must have given her away; or maybe Harry was just too damn good at reading her face, because his eyebrows folded in on themselves, he closed the door and moved over to where she was sitting.

“What’s going on, Beatrice?”

She attempted to keep her countenance up, but under Harry’s questioning eyes that turned out to be an impossible task.

“I’m scared shitless. That’s what’s going on,” she finally gave back. Her voice was shaking, and she could have punched herself for being such a fucking sissy. In front of Harry Styles, specifically.

He moved even closer, keeping eye contact through their reflections, until he came to stand right behind her. She could smell a hint of his aftershave. When he spoke again, his voice was soft.

“I’ve hardly ever seen someone perform with as much grace and soul as you. You were brilliant. In your stage shows, in our rehearsals, you were always, _always_ on point. And you will be just as brilliant tonight. Even more so. You’re going to walk out there, and you’re going to blow them all away. I know it, Beatrice. Trust me.”

Harry’s hand found its way onto her shoulder, where the cold metal of his rings grazed her skin, and his eyes were searching her face for approval. The calmness radiating off him seemed to pour balm on her worn down confidence, and Tris felt her fingers on the armrests of her chair slowly unclench. She attempted a smile, and while she didn’t entirely succeed at it, it was a lot more convincing than her effort at collectedness only a minute ago.

“How do you do it?” she asked, quietly.

“Do what?”

“Be so calm.”

Harry smiled. “Have you ever heard that saying? _Fake it til you make it_? That’s me, basically, when it comes to stage fright. The first times getting out there with my old band were hell for me. I was scared out of my fucking mind. But if you tell yourself often enough how cool and calm you are, after a while, you become it.”

Tris shook her head. “You were born for this job, weren’t you?”

His smile grew broader. “I like to think so. But, you know, Beatrice” His left hand moved to her left shoulder and settled there, anchoring her even more. “You were born for this, too.”

For a moment, looking at him through the mirror, him looking back at her with absolute honesty in his grey and green eyes, she felt the small twinge of _something_ in her gut, something that was nothing like frightfulness; a fiery premonition of strength, and she nodded.

“Thank you, Harry. You’re a life saver.”

“Anytime, love.”

This time she managed a full smile, hoping, for a small moment, that he was going to stay, to keep his hands on her shoulders and walk her out on stage like this, but a few seconds later he let go of her and tilted his head towards the door.

“I’ll see you outside. Let’s give ‘em a night to remember. Alright?”

“Absolutely,” she retorted – and for the first time tonight she believed herself.

 

 

***

 

 

The fear spiked back up, for a moment, while she stood, waiting for her entrance, plucking at the glittering tails of her sequin dress, but the moment Harry’s voice announced “ _The wonderful Tris Callahan”_ through booming speakers she felt her feet move of their own accord, carrying her out into the blinding beams, a smile on her face. Harry was expecting her up ahead, looking at her like he was seeing her, _really_ seeing her for the first time; and suddenly, weirdly, she felt like he was the one and only person she should be singing for tonight. The thousands of cheering faces and blinking smartphone cameras in the darkness around them were merely here to witness.

When the band started to play the intro of _Sign of the Times_ behind her, it seemed only natural to walk up to him, join him at her mic, and around the second chorus in, she found a smile beginning to form on his face, telling her what she already knew: They were good, maybe even great, their voices intertwining and bouncing off of each other, just like in their rehearsals. Better, actually. Tris smiled back.

She hardly noticed that the song was ending when it did; her focus was elsewhere, some place between Harry’s lyrics and his eyes – but she _did_ notice the exuberant applause from the people surrounding them.

“Thank you,” Harry said, waking her from her trance. “Thank you. I think it’s hardly necessary to introduce Tris more than I already have. Most of you know her from her fantastic work. She released her debut album _Miles To Go_ last autumn, and when I listened to it I just – fell in love.”

He winked at her, and Tris felt her cheeks heat up.

“But I’m not alone in that, given the amazing responses we got upon announcing Tris performing with me tonight. I’m so, so grateful for you all being here. I hope you’re going to remember this concert night as a good one.”

He waited patiently for the resurging applause to die down a little.

“The next song we’re going to play is one of Tris’. Would you…?” He looked at her expectantly.

“Sure, H.”

The crowd cheered.

“I haven’t even said good evening to you lovely people, it’s horribly rude, but Harry and the band were faster than me, so I had to sing first. I hope you’re not too mad at me.”

Laughter.

Tris threw a mock-serious glance around. “This song was written under dire circumstances: On a Sunday night with no chocolate in my flat, bad music on the radio and a ventilator that did absolutely nothing against the thirty degree Celsius inside. I called it _Nothing On My Mind,_ because that’s literally what it felt like.”

She signalled the band and only a few seconds later she was back to singing. Harry joined in for the chorus, his voice floating around hers: _Have you seen me on a summer night, with nothing on my mind. Would you like to come along and hold me for a while._

It was over faster than she could blink; and Harry led them into _Sweet Creature_ , after which they sang another one of her songs, then another one of Harry’s and so forth and so forth. She never took her eyes away from him for too long; and maybe she was imagining it, but he seemed to be directing most of his lines more towards her than towards the crowd as well. The longer they sang, the smoother their performance became, as if they were swinging and breathing in complete harmony, and Tris had long since forgotten all fear of failure. This was magnificent, absolutely magnificent, and she didn’t think she’d ever want to stop singing with Harry ever again.

Far too soon the first set was drawing to a close as the band started to play  _Only Angel,_ and Tris watched Harry strap on his guitar, noticed how his presence shifted from “honest and sad pop star” to “downright filthy rock star” over the first few bars of the song. She knew the crowd could sense it, too; the change of atmosphere seemed almost palpable in the air – and then, suddenly, Harry was looking at her, right at her, the moment he opened his mouth to sing, his deep eyes filled with a lot of very interesting promises, and Tris felt her stomach tighten. This wasn’t an emotion she’d ever permitted herself in the context of their collaboration, not even during rehearsals – despite being completely aware of Harry’s seemingly inevitable sex appeal right from the beginning. But she had found it extremely unprofessional to respond to her instincts on that level: Harry and she were working together, _not_ sleeping together, and Tris usually liked to keep these two things an “either…or…”, for reasons closely tied to things she would rather forget about.

Right now, though, she found her resolve increasingly difficult to uphold. The heavy air carried the rhythm of his song like waves, the pumped-up people were screaming all around them, and _Harry_... – the curls of hair brushing down his neck, his rougher-than-usual voice over the speakers, the outlines of skin beneath his shirt, his eyes… Dear God, those _eyes_.

She nearly missed her entry, and she could see the smugness in Harry’s gaze, mixing the heat in her stomach with a petty thirst for revenge, thoughts racing around in her head like lightning bolts, until Harry slightly bit his lower lip and she found herself incapable of thinking altogether. Luckily, the lyrics still came through, and her mouth and vocal chords were moving without her doing as she stepped closer to him, close enough to see the tiny drops of sweat on his forehead, close enough to worry about actually falling into his eyes and never returning.

_I must admit I thought I’d like to make you mine as I went about my business through the warning signs._

Tris raised one eyebrow, a challenge, and Harry stepped up to it. His fingers were still moving on the guitar when he answered with his lines, his movements devastatingly seductive; and then, somehow, they had gotten to the midtro, and Tris went to her knees. She could hear gasps, from far away, and some part of her knew that this was going to be all over the news in the morning, but none of that mattered right now. Her nose was full of Harry’s aftershave, transported through the heat he was giving off, and then her tongue and teeth were plucking at the strings on his guitar for three, four bars, before she broke away, got up, put the mic back to her mouth like she hadn’t just simulated going down on Harry Styles before half of New York City and kept singing.

She didn’t, maybe _couldn’t_ feel any sense of mortification, surrounded by sound and scent and with that addictive power thrumming through her veins. When she finally looked at Harry, she could have sunk to her knees all over again. His gaze was sharp, his pupils blown, his mouth forming _She’s an angel. Only angel._ over and over just like hers; and all of a sudden, Tris wished, desperately, for the song to end.

It did, eventually, followed by ear-splitting cheers and applause; and then she was backstage and Harry was walking a few steps ahead of her. She followed him, past her own dressing room, around the corner, down the corridor, into his own; and a second later he had her slammed against the door, his face inches from hers, her field of vision narrowed down to green and grey as he pinned her down with his eyes, a butterfly in a showcase. For a few seconds none of them said a word, breathing together, too fast; and the heat between them made it impossible for Tris to ask herself what the hell she was doing, before one of them, or both, or some force greater than them altogether merged their mouths in a kiss that Tris was going to remember for the rest of her life. She could almost taste the adrenaline on Harry’s tongue, could feel him shiver through the thin, close-to-nothing fabric of his cheap excuse for a shirt when her hands drifted down his back, looking for something to hold onto, his mouth moving from her lips down her jaw, to her neck, tasting and curious. His left hand was holding onto her shoulder, while his right pressed insistently against her side, warmth through the sequins, and Tris was sure she was close to some sort of minor cardiovascular event, when somebody knocked at the very door she was backed up against, and they both nearly jumped out of their skin.

Harry let go of her in an instant, and Tris stepped away from the door, trying to fix her mildly dishevelled hair with a look into the mirror on the other side of the room, when Jeff entered, a wide grin on his face. He didn’t comment on Tris being in the wrong dressing room, or their guilt-ridden facial expressions – he simply walked up to Harry and hugged him, before slightly bowing before Tris and kissing her hand.

“What a show. Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic. Both of you. I mean, you always are, but this? Tonight? Madison Square Garden? Harry Styles and Tris Callahan? Amazing. And, Miss Callahan, that re-enactment of the seventies out there? Brilliant idea.”

“What?”

Jeff blinked at her. “Well, I thought that was your intention? The guitar? David Bowie – I’m sure you know him – did that exact thing you did during  _Only Angel_ to his guitarist Mick Ronson about forty years ago. It was all over the tabloids. Massive story. Gave the rumours about his sexual preferences a lifetime of fodder.” He raised his eyebrows and grinned.

Tris swallowed. That was news to her. But she assumed that the press hadn’t fundamentally changed since the seventies. The next few days in the public eye were going to be – _interesting._ At best.

“I didn’t know. It just sort of” She shot Harry a sidelong glance. “Happened.”

Jeff laughed. “All the better. Then it was truly born out of the moment.”

Tris bit her lip and all of a sudden Harry’s hand was on her back, settling her terrified thoughts a little, while Jeff raved on about their performance.

“I should go freshen my make-up,” she said, as soon as the opportunity presented itself, and Harry’s hand disappeared. She managed a grateful smile in his direction before nodding at Jeff and walking out on shaky legs.

Hadn’t Harry said they should be giving their audience a night to remember? “Well, maybe I overdid it a little” she murmured upon entering her room. They still had a second set to do and Tris felt close to panicking all over again, though for completely different reasons than before, when she tried to wrap her head around everything she had done over the last ten minutes.

“Fuck.”


	2. Several Instances Of Blasphemy

Tris watched herself sit down, saw her eyeliner redrawn, her jet-black hair fluffed up around her head, her lips slicked in dark brown and the black leather dress she had chosen for the second set closed up around her curvy figure like she was looking on from the outside. The panic had subsided some a soon as she had gotten down to her tasks, which she was glad about, but it had also given way to a dull, cotton-wool-sensation in her head, making the time span from entering her dressing room to stepping out of it feel like seconds and ages all at once, immersed in a continuum of thoughts and non-thoughts and wishing that Harry would burst in and explain to her what had happened, or maybe just hug her, or maybe kiss her again, or maybe...

“Two minutes!” The stage assistant commanded, ushering her down the corridor. The part of her brain that was still functioning reminded Tris of the fact that she was to go out on stage alone and do her next song without Harry.

_Lost at Sea._

How very fitting.

She wasn’t sure exactly how she got there but suddenly she was sitting at her piano, smiling into the crowd like she had done many times before, and thank God for routine and rehearsals, because her voice was still present and her fingers were hitting the right keys even though she was far, far away, _leave me and I’m lost, leave me and I’m lost at sea…_

Her song ended, and there was Harry, at last, dressed up in grey velour trousers and a black shirt that was buttoned down straight to his navel, golden cross dangling on his chest, the messy hair and the pink nails completing the picture of a rock star messiah decades out of time, yet somehow not at all misplaced; and Tris’ heart did a strange little stuttering thing when she got up from her piano chair to greet him. She tried to say _Thank you, I’m so glad you’re not leaving me alone out here_ with her eyes only, but Harry seemed to understand nonetheless: He was smiling at her, an open, no-holds-barred kind of smile, and Tris felt the fogginess slowly lift from her mind around the time _Meet Me In The Hallway_ started. It was easy to fall back into their rhythm, one song turning into another, right to the last one, a slow, soft, raw version of _From The Dining Table_ that Tris could feel every syllable of scratching at her innards. She did her best to hold back the tears when it finished, while the crowd started screaming for an encore.

“Alright! Alright! Don’t panic. We’re not just gonna disappear on you!” Harry shouted into his microphone. “First of all, I want you to give a truly _enormous_ applause for my talented, brilliant, beyond-words-beautiful guest, Miss TRIS CALLAHAN!”

Tris bowed and curtsied, and the people kept screaming and screaming, until the band began to play _Sign of the Times_ , once again. She gripped her mic tighter and looked over to Harry who was singing the first verse, his gaze directed to some place above the ubiquitous smartphone cameras before him, enraptured; and Tris couldn’t take her eyes off of him again, not even when she joined in on the chorus. Something about him like this, right then, made him seem larger than the confines of his body. For a moment, Tris wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d actually pushed off the ground and taken flight, skyward, where his voice was already headed.

It was her turn, the second verse, _just stop your crying, have the time of your life_ and her arm moved, stretched itself out towards Harry without hesitation. His eyes had drifted back over the stage in her direction, and he mimicked her gesture the moment he took note of it, his mouth curving upwards, his legs carrying him over to her with long steps. He reached her, two lines later, his hand clasping hers, and suddenly they were singing together, their voices entangling like their fingers: _remember everything will be alright, we can meet again somewhere, somewhere far away from here._ And on, and on, and on… In retrospect Tris didn’t remember much of the rest of the song, only Harry’s warmth and the look on his face, and the incredible, impossible feeling that they were delivering the performance of a lifetime.

When it was over, Harry looped his arms around her and pulled her into a long hug, right there on stage, drowning out the deafening noise from around them with one brush of his hand down her back. Tris reciprocated, let herself feel the warm, slightly humid fabric of his shirt underneath her fingertips, the soft touch of his curls against the side of her face, and her mind flashed back to what had happened in the dressing room only an hour and a bit ago. She hoped to God that her make-up would hide most of the crimson that had crept up her neck when Harry finally moved away from her, but she wasn’t entirely sure.

“Thank you New York! Thank you, every single one of you. You were absolutely fantastic! Goodbye!” Harry waved to the crowd one last time, and then, without further ado, he took Tris’ hand, and touched it to his lips in the most fleeting way, before pulling her off stage with him.

As soon as they were out of sight, Harry let go of her, but before Tris had the time to be disappointed about it he had already pulled her into another hug, tighter than before; and this one, she knew, was only for her.

His voice was low and full against her ear, sending a warm wave of fondness from her spine right down to her high-heel-tortured toes. “Thank you, Tris. You were fantastic. I thought I was gonna cry out there when you started singing, it was so beautiful.”

“You, too,” she gave back, pressing the words into the soft, scented skin of his neck. “Oh my God, that last song – it was breathtaking to witness. Like you were growing out of yourself.”

He pulled her even closer, not displaying any sign of wanting to let go in the next few minutes, and _she_ wasn’t going to move away for the life of her, not sooner than she absolutely had to, so they stayed exactly where they were for quite a while. Tris could feel Harry smiling at her ear after some time, which made her grin as well; and all of a sudden they were both laughing, eventually breaking apart in the midst of it. It took them a while to calm down, but when they did, none of them showed any inclination of moving in the direction of their respective dressing rooms.

“What are you planning tonight?” Harry asked, all of a sudden, his eyes still dancing with the remnants of laughter.

Tris found it hard to breathe for a moment or two.

“Uhhh – eat popcorn in front of my TV?” she answered, truthfully.

“Could I, maybe, enthuse you with some sushi instead? And…” He threw a glance down at his rather extravagant footwear. “My company?”

_Unprofessional, Tris. UNPROFESSIONAL._

“I’d be – delighted.”

He looked up again, with an expression on his face like her answer had surprised him, but then he was smiling at her again, genuinely, happily; and, honestly, _unprofessional_ could go screw itself.

 

 

***

 

 

“Fuck me _sideways_ ,” Tris gaped at Harry across her plate. “I _live_ here, why have I never been here? Oh my God. This is _amazing_.”

Harry grinned. The high-class, geometrical, black-and-white interior of the Japanese restaurant he had taken her to already conveyed the impression that eating here would put more than just a small dent in anyone’s purse, but the astronomically high prices were more than justified by the astronomically fantastic sushi Tris had just taken her first bite of.

“Are you always this enthusiastic about food?”

“Only when it deserves enthusiasm. And this, Jesus Christ on a pogo stick, this probably deserves its own religion.”

Harry pulled up a thoughtful eyebrow. “I think you just managed to blaspheme twice in only one sentence.”  
“What can I say. I’m a natural,” she retorted.

Harry smiled at her. “Are you?”, he asked.

“What? Naturally good at taking God’s name in vain? Hell yes.”

“Religious, I mean,” he specified, shoved the sushi roll he had been holding with his chopsticks into his mouth and started chewing, a curious expression on his face. It was an unexpectedly serious question, and Tris thought about it for a while.

“Well – it sounds so commonplace when I say it, but – not in the traditional sense? Some concepts of faith and religion really appeal to me; the whole _be nice to people_ aspect of it, and the _there’s something greater than us out there_ part, I’m a big fan of that. Other things, though, I do not subscribe to at all. Which probably makes me a capital-A-Atheist for every religious person out there, but that’s not entirely true. I do believe in something, whatever it might be.” She sighed. “I guess I’m forever stuck at not knowing exactly what I am and having to give weird answers to easy questions.”

Harry had listened to her very attentively. It took him a while to reply.

“Maybe that’s not too bad, though. Not knowing exactly where you’re standing with your beliefs. It forces you to evaluate yourself again and again. Think independently and all that. Never get too comfortable.”

She looked at him over their sushi and their sake, caught up by his eyes. They were sparkling in the light, somewhere between green and grey and blue, and Tris found herself increasingly lost for words.

“Maybe,” she gave back, less than eloquent.

“What do you believe in?” she added after a pause and a long draught of sake that managed to clear her thoughts a little.

“Love,” he said, like it was a matter of course. “Giving it, receiving it, putting it out into the world every day. Some days I’m not able to, no matter how hard I try. Those days should be the exception.”

Tris smiled at him. “If this were anyone but you speaking to me, I would take that with a pinch of salt. But since it isn’t, just let me ask you, how do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Love so much.”

Harry glanced down at his plate, somewhat awkward all of a sudden. “Some days it’s easy. Most days, actually. I’m grateful, for all the people who let me do this, let me make my living this way, enable me to produce music and sing it. And I love it. I love my life very much, indeed.”

“It shows,” Tris responded, softly.

He looked back up at her, something unreadable in his eyes.

“Some days it’s a bit harder, though.”

She held his gaze, unable not to. “How about today?”

Harry chuckled, and suddenly there were fingers on her wrist, warm and reassuring, and something caught fire inside the pit of her stomach.

“Never been easier than today,” he retorted.


	3. Commencing Countdown, Engines On

“You’re a terrible person.”

“Shush.”

“You can’t just pay for dinner while I’m gone, that’s plain unfair.”

“Too late. And I invited you anyway.” Harry was grinning at her like a particularly mischievous cat and Tris shook her head in resignation, before a smile settled on her lips. “Well, thank you, then, Mr. Styles. It was marvellous.”

“The pleasure is entirely mine, Ms. Callahan.”

She slid back onto the white leather bench opposite Harry that she’d only gotten up from five minutes ago, pausing their conversation about religion, literature and music for a short visit to the spaceshippy bathrooms of the restaurant, and watched him lean back in his chair. His movements conveyed the same unobtrusive self-assuredness he showed on stage. Thinking about it, Tris had never seen anyone who made it look so easy, so normal, to perform. Harry didn’t seem to need a mask to do it like so many other artists she had encountered. He was the same person with the same mannerisms, the same speaking patterns and the same fearless expression in his eyes, here and there.

“Something on your mind?” he asked, a rough edge to his voice that brought Tris’ focus back to his face. He was looking straight at her, and the intensity in his eyes sent a familiar shudder through her body. His hand was resting on the table between them, adorned with three silver rings in various designs, the same hand that had wrapped itself around her wrist earlier, the same hand that had pressed its heat through her dress a few hours ago.

“That dressing room keeps coming back to me,” she said, truthfully, still immersed in the view.

A soft chuckle sounded from the other side of the table and the hand moved, its fingertips making contact with Tris’ forearm and sending electricity through her skin right into her bones.

“I never wanted a break to last longer so badly.” Harry’s voice was low, and Tris made the mistake of looking up. He was leaning towards her, something dark in his eyes. His lips were slightly parted, his breath coming a little too fast, and Tris’ pulse increased its tempo without warning, adrenaline coiling in her belly like a snake.

“Why?” It was a superfluous question, but Tris’ mouth was moving without her, like it had done on stage earlier, and thinking about what she was saying seemed more and more impossible.

  
The left corner of Harry’s mouth twitched. “There were an awful lot of things I could imagine having done back there. Ten minutes more would have sufficed.”

His hand enveloped hers, and suddenly his lips were only millimetres away from her knuckles, close enough that she could feel the hot bursts of his breath on her skin.

“Sufficed?” she echoed, unable to form a clear thought under this onslaught.

Harry smiled.

“To make you scream my name,” he replied, conversationally, before pressing a small kiss to the back of Tris’ hand.

She wasn’t quite sure whether her heart was still beating, or whether she had, in fact, deceased in the last few seconds; all she knew was that her head was further away from functioning correctly in any shape or form than it had ever been and that she physically craved Harry to rectify the omission of _not_ having made her scream his name two hours ago _immediately._

“Harry,” she said, and she was surprised that it came out as calmly as it did. “You need to grab your jacket and take me home, because if we sit here one minute longer I can guarantee for absolutely nothing, apart from the fact that we both are going to get barred from this establishment forever.”

He blinked, and then a wide, beautiful smile started spreading on his face.

Next thing she knew she was standing up and pulling him with her, barely having grabbed her purse, and there was a taxi outside, thank God, that they could get into right away, backseat, up against each other, and Tris rattled out her address, before turning her attention back to Harry.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you’re going to kill me” she managed, looking at his face, still full of laughter, before her lips crashed into his like a wave into a cliff. The ghost of sake slid over her tongue with the kiss and the flip in her stomach made her feel like she’d just gotten off stage all over again, only this wasn’t a dressing room, and Jeff wasn’t here to interrupt them, at least not before tomorrow, and she was going to get _this_ all night long. A moan escaped her lips at the thought and Harry’s grip tightened on her lower back where his hand had settled. Tris answered by burying her fingers in the gorgeous curls at the nape of his neck and pulling him in further.

“If that bloody guitar hadn’t been in the way, nothing would have stopped me from going down on you right then and there,” she whispered in between kisses, and Harry’s breath left his mouth in a hot, sharp gust.

“ _Fuck,_ ” He let go of her for a moment, his eyes wide but narrowing bit by bit while the surprise went out of them. And then Harry had his arms around her waist, pulling her back towards him, until they were nose to nose. “You, my lovely Beatrice,” he murmured, “are going to forget your beautiful name very shortly. I’m going to make sure of it. And _then_ I’m going to fuck you. Just so you know.”

Now it was Tris’ turn to fail spectacularly at the basic task of breathing, before Harry’s lips were on hers again and everything else got tuned out, apart from the need for _more of this, more, oh my God, more_.

The taxi driver finally disrupted their make-out-session with a disinterested clearing of his throat and a tap of his finger to the taximeter. Tris paid with some folded-up cash straight out of her clutch, before Harry could even get his wallet out, and then climbed out of the taxi, before he had the chance to come around and open the door for her. He shook his head in disapproval, as the taxi drove off.

“You just won’t let me demonstrate my good manners.” His lips were curled upwards, and the night breeze pushed the tousled locks out of his face. Tris had to somewhat constrain herself not to jump him.

“You _did_ show your manners. They are excellent. And you are welcome to re-activate them any time I’m not in the state you’ve very recently put me in.”

“What state?”

Now he was just teasing.

“Horny. As. Fuck,” Tris stated, before stepping up to him and pressing the palm of her hand to his crotch with a smile on her face.

Harry’s eyes fell shut for a moment, and when he opened them again, the look in them was dangerously sultry and accompanied by something of a low growl. Tris could feel her insides twist in the best way possible, as he grabbed her waist, and started walking them towards the apartment building at a swift pace.

“You, Ms. Callahan, have no self control.”

“And you, Mr. Styles, do?”

“I never said that.”

They passed the door, and Mr. Gorski, the middle-aged security guard at the desk, looked up from his screens.

“Ev’nin’ Ms. Callahan,” he greeted her.

“Good evening, Mr. Gorski. Mr. Gorski, this is Mr. Styles. Mr. Styles, Mr. Gorski.”

The two men gave each other a small nod and a smile, and then Harry and Tris were past the desk, in the elevator area, and Harry pushed her against the next wall, pressed the elevator button, and went to his knees right before her without further ado. Tris’ breathing stopped for five seconds straight, as his hands spanned her hips and his mouth came to rest between her legs, only separated from her skin by her tight, red evening dress and a skimpy see-through thong beneath it. She could feel the warmth of Harry’s breath through the two layers; and she had never heard of a woman coming from that alone, but _Jesus Christ,_ she was close.

“You’re going to ruin your suit,” she breathed.

“And your reputation with Mr. Gorski, if that elevator keeps me waiting for longer than ten seconds,” Harry gave back. “Starting now. Ten…Nine.”

His left hand made contact with her ankle over her high heels, moving up, and the muscles in Tris’ legs clenched inadvertently at the touch. Harry was looking up at her through his lashes, and the expression in his eyes told her that he was absolutely ready to do what he was promising. A small part of her wasn’t so keen on the elevator making it in time all of a sudden, despite her brain telling her otherwise.

“Eight.”

“What happened to manners?”

Harry pushed the fabric of her dress up and pressed a small kiss to her knee. “I’ll re-activate them once I’ve resolved the state I’ve put you in. Seven.”

“What state?”, Tris gave back, aware of the fact that it was her who was doing the teasing now. The dress got pushed up a little further, to about the middle of her thigh.

“Horny as fuck. As you so eloquently put it.” Another small pinprick of a kiss. “Six.”

His fingers started creeping along beneath her dress, up her thigh, pushing at the hem of her panties, the cool metal of his rings dragging along the sensitive area where her leg met her pelvis. She could barely hold in a whimper as her head fell back against the granite wall.

“Five,” Harry whispered. “God, I hope this elevator never makes it.”

“Keep counting,” Tris retorted, breathlessly and he chuckled.

“Four.” Another hot burst of breath met her centre through the fabric with the word, as he moved his mouth in again, closer.

“Three…”

_DING._

With surprising velocity Harry let go of her, pulled her dress back down to a sensible length, got up from the floor, grabbed her hand and walked her over into the elevator that had just opened up next to them.

“Which floor?” he asked, obviously aware of the fact that Tris didn’t see herself capable of showing initiative at the moment.

“Seventh.”

“Seventh it is.” He looked over to her, resting her worked-up self against the rear wall of the cabin, and in a single bound he was back in her personal space, tangling two gentle fingers in her hair while the elevator doors closed. “More unnecessary interruptions,” he murmured.

  
“It was for the better, to be honest. Traumatising one’s security guard with public sex is high up the list of things one really shouldn’t do in NYC.”

Harry smiled. “Could have been fun, though.”

Tris moved in very closely and softly bit down on his lower lip, eliciting a groan from his throat. “You evil, evil man.”

“Says the woman who nearly made me come in my fucking satin trousers in front of a sold-out Madison Square Garden,” he whispered against her mouth. “The revenge was completely legitimate.”

_DING._

Seventh floor.

With difficulty, Tris pushed him off her, then took his arm and pulled him along down the corridor to her apartment door.

Finding the key in her purse seemed to take an eternity with Harry’s heat along her back; but then, finally, the lock gave a soft click, the door yielded, and they were in.


	4. Devil In Between The Sheets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated the rating for some steamy sex and the shameless abuse of rock classics.

The moment the door fell shut behind them Tris had Harry jammed against it. One of her hands was dancing over his side, her teeth were scraping at his clavicle and her nose buried itself in the hollow of his throat, following the scent of his aftershave, while her other hand was blindly searching for the switch to the lights in her flat. Just as she’d found and flicked it, she suddenly lost her footing, because Harry was lifting her up, turning them both around and pressing her against the door. Her legs wrapped around his back and his arms around her shoulders, while his mouth was drifting down the side of her neck, accompanied by slow swirls of his tongue against her skin that made her fingers clench in his hair.

“ _Jesus._ ”

He looked up, his pupils wide pools of black in his eyes, seemingly unperturbed by the 150 pounds of woman he was currently holding up.

“You weren’t wrong. You are definitely naturally talented at taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

A laugh escaped Tris’ throat, despite herself. “Oh, shut your smart mouth, Harry Styles. There are so many good alternatives to talking.”

A small glint appeared in his eye, and then Tris’ feet were on solid ground again. She used that fact to her advantage right away by attaching her mouth firmly to Harry’s and manoeuvring them both towards the bedroom. None of them took any time whatsoever to appreciate the beautiful view over Central Park the window front in the living room they crossed on their way provided them with, but then – none of them took enough note to care. When they finally reached their destination, Tris found herself pushed back first onto the mattress faster than she could blink. Harry didn’t follow her immediately; instead he took his sweet time opening his shirt button by button, before pulling it off and throwing it to the ground. The lines of black ink all over his upper body were a sight to behold, and Tris promised herself then and there that she was absolutely going to trace each and every one of them with her tongue as soon as the opportunity would present itself; first those birds on his chest, and then the butterfly over his stomach, and then...

“You’re ridiculously beautiful, do you know that?”, she said, with feeling. Harry’s eyes darted away for a second, nearly sheepish, and the discrepancy between his expression right there and the bold, dauntless sex appeal he was carrying around all the time made the slow pull in her gut make a vigorous reappearance. She pushed herself up on the bed, dragged the zipper at the side of her dress down and freed herself of the garment with a few trained movements, sending it flying to the floor to nearly the same spot Harry had left his shirt at, followed by her bra, her panties and her shoes.

When she looked up again, Harry’s gaze seemed like a physical presence on her body, as if he was touching her without even lifting a finger.

“If anyone is gonna die tonight, it’s me,” he said. “Have you _seen_ yourself, Beatrice? Good _God_.”

With three strides he was on her, pressing her back down onto the mattress and starting to spread hungry kisses and licks from her mouth down her neck over her breasts.

“Fucking perfect,” he groaned, before he closed his lips around her left nipple and began sucking on it, interrupting himself only with a few soft, dedicated bites. Tris felt her lower back lift off the bed; it seemed to her as if a live wire had been established from her nipple right to her groin that Harry’s mouth was now relentlessly applying current to until it was incandescing, white and hot.

“Harry, oh _fucking Hell, Harry._ ”

He let go for a moment and nuzzled the side of her breast, his hair dragging over her reddened nipple and generating a whole new bunch of pleasurable sensations, before he moved over and gave the other one the same treatment with his tongue and teeth, reducing Tris to a shivering mess, her hands clamped down on the bed sheets while she saw herself stripped of her sanity piece by piece. When Harry’s mouth finally made its way down her belly she was about ready to come, and the first brush of his tongue through her folds prompted her to scream his name and buck off the bed.

That didn’t exactly deter him – on the contrary: He put his hands on her hips, held her in place and went right down to business, repeating the motion at a faster pace with a little more pressure. Tris had hardly ever met a man who had been so terrifyingly dead centre on where she wanted him to be right from the beginning. Most needed at least a modicum of instruction, but Harry? Seemed to own a map to the goddamn place. After about a minute Tris’ muscles started to contract uncontrollably, and her breath slipped past her lips in a pleasure-driven staccato.

“Oh my God, fuck, fuck, _FUCK._ Harry, fuck.”

And that was _it_ ; the pleasure that had been collecting at the base of her spine, slow and golden like honey, lit her up for five, six, seven breathtakingly ecstatic moments, Harry’s name a whisper-song on her lips, and then it was over and she pulled him up, her fingers in his hair, kissing him for all she was worth.

“I need you inside me. Now.” The words came breathless and quiet, and Harry let out something very close to a mewl, before he moved away from her for a few long moments to get rid of his trousers. Tris used the time to recollect herself as much as possible, fishing a condom out of the first drawer in her nightstand while she was at it; and then Harry was back, kissing her very insistently, the taste and scent of his damp skin overshadowing the residual traces of aftershave, the length of his cock rock-hard against her hip, and Tris couldn’t remember _wanting_ someone as much as she wanted him right now.

She felt Harry jerk against her and mumble a curse word when she touched his length for the first time to position the condom, but then – finally – she had it rolled down, and three heartbeats later he was sliding into her, a stable, grounding, wonderful presence. His eyes closed at the sensation, and she saw her name fall from his lips in silence.

An odd sense of pride filled her as she pushed her hips up to meet him for the first few thrusts, a primal claim of ownership over his pleasure, _this is me, I’m doing this to him_ , and then he started fucking her in earnest, hard, confident thrusts that went through bone and marrow, forcing small, pleased noises from her throat. Somewhere along the way Harry’s eyes flew open and then he was looking at her, admiration in his gaze along with lust. He stilled for a moment, taking the time to shove a strand of hair out of her forehead with a smile and stroke the side of her face.

“You feel incredible,” he stated, softly.

Tris wrapped her legs around his hips as an answer and drew him into her, wrangling a moan from his throat.

“ _Jesus,_ Beatrice.”

“Say it again. My name,” she demanded, while Harry picked up pace.

“Beatrice. Beatrice. Beatri-“ She kissed her name from his lips, the tips of her fingers anchored in his hair, her own lips forming _Harry_ over and over; and then Harry’s mouth left hers, his neck tilted back in ecstasy, his eyes falling shut, his hair dancing over his cheeks; and Tris couldn’t look away, couldn’t blink, could only try and engrave this in her memory forever.

With a sigh Harry let himself sink down, against her, his breathing harsh and laboured, and Tris smiled into his temple, her hands languidly wandering over his back.

“You kept your promise,” she said.

“Hm?”

“You made me scream your name.”

Harry lifted his head, a slow smile on his lips, and then his fingers came up to caress her cheek. Tris noticed that he hadn’t taken his rings off during the whole ordeal, and some part of her, a part that wasn’t hopelessly exhausted, found that disproportionately hot.

“I’m a man of his word.”  


“Stop being so smug about it.”

“Oh, if I only could.” He was laughing, and then his weight left her as he got up and made his way over to the bathroom, picking up items of clothing from the floor. Tris heard water running, and two minutes later Harry came back out, cleaned up and wearing boxer briefs. Tris hadn’t even managed to put her panties back on in the meantime.

“Are you staying? Or going?” she asked. She couldn’t help but notice a small lump forming in her throat.

Harry looked at her with something of a question in his eyes. “Is this an invitation? Or a dismissal?” he gave back, and Tris had to laugh out loud, because she had never really seen it from that perspective.

“It’s everything _but_ a dismissal,” she stated, at last; and a grin spread over Harry’s lips.

“Cool. Your flat is amazing, by the way,” he said.

“Ah, I see, you only want me for my money,” Tris gave back mockingly, an answering grin on her face.

“That was my primary impulse, of course.”

“Mh, should have seen it coming. You’re all the same.”

Harry had reached the bed and climbed it, moving up Tris’ body with a look in his eyes that was difficult to read, “I mean, it’s understandable, right? Beside your fantastic voice.” He brushed her inner thigh with his fingertips. “And your great songwriting.” Another fleeting touch, to her belly. “And your attempts at masking your gracious personality as something not worthy of notice.” Touch to her clavicle. “And your awesome sense of humour.” His fingers came to rest on her lips, lingering a little longer this time. “And your beauty. One could definitely only want you for your money.”

Something inside Tris’ chest cavity seemed to have gone adrift at his words, impossible to hold or contain. She couldn’t quite tell why; the only thing she knew for sure was that the lump in her throat had disappeared as well.

“Would you care for some music?” she asked as Harry lay down next to her, his fingers ghosting over her side.

“Always. But only if you promise to come back,” he said, smiling.

Tris smiled back, pressed a small kiss to his shoulder and got up (a little awkwardly, since she was still aching in all the right spots), moving over into the living room where she brought her tablet to life with a few choice taps of her fingers. The first song came up on the randomised selection, and Tris nearly broke out into laughter when Freddie Mercury’s voice boomed through the surround sound speakers like a thunderclap: _TONIIIGHT, I’M GONNA HAVE MYSEEELF A REAL GOOD TIME._

“I FEEL ALIIIIIIIIVE,” Harry’s voice mingled from the master bedroom. “God, I love this song.”

“Me, too,” Tris shouted, all exhaustion gone at the drop of a hat, as she grabbed the dark blue satiny dressing gown she had negligently left on her sofa some time ago, took her sunglasses from the coffee table, then ran into the kitchen to obtain a random wire whisk from one of the drawers. Just as the first verse gave her _I’m a shooting star leaping through the sky_ she presented herself in front of the bedroom, sunglasses on her face, the hand with the wire whisk triumphantly stretched out towards the ceiling, dressed in nothing but her morning gown, and then started to perform the song as Freddie-like as she possibly could.

After only four lines Harry had completely lost it, wheezing with laughter on the bed, as she jumped on it, shaking her hips to _I wanna make a supersonic man out of you,_ blowing him a kiss and proceeding with _Don’t Stop Me NOWWWW_ at full voice, while Harry seemed to find it increasingly difficult to breathe at all in between punishing salvos of laughter.

Sometime during the chorus he managed to pull himself together, though, grabbing the hand she was holding the wire whisk with and pulling it towards his mouth, while he got up to stand on the bed as well, where he gave a startlingly well-intonated rendition of _If you wanna have a good time, just gimme a CAAAAALLL_ , wiggling his eyebrows at her suggestively. Tris had to stop and breathe for a moment, as Harry relieved her of the wire whisk and the glasses, that looked even more ridiculous on him in his boxer briefs right now, and then she found herself pushed back into a sitting position up against the headrest of her bed, while Harry took over verse no. 2.

 _I’m a rocket-ship on my way to Mars,_ he lip-synced, accompanied by a few decidedly Freddie-esque circles of his hips; and Tris was trying very hard indeed to coordinate her breathing with the laughter bubbling out of her throat. Then Harry took the sunglasses off, landing them somewhere on the bed next to them, threw the wire whisk down on the floor, and _really_ went to town.

“I’m a sex machine ready to reload,” another wiggle of his eyebrows, and then he was lowering himself down over her lap, thrusting and grinding his hips in a manoeuvre that wouldn’t have been out of place in a _Magic Mike_ movie. Tris felt something else mix in with her laughter as she took hold of him, letting her hands glide over the painted laurels framing his hip bones, and tracing the outlines of the butterfly on his stomach with her knuckles.

Harry’s hands landed on either side of her head, pushing against the headrest, his mouth carrying a slow smile towards her and they were kissing again, less urgent this time around, leaving themselves more room for small nibbles and sweeps of tongue that went nowhere, just like Freddie’s voice that faded into the distance around them.

Tris missed the first part of the next song, and when she came to, sitting in Harry’s lap, his head buried at her throat, David Bowie was already singing _This is Major Tom to Ground Control, I’m stepping through the door…_

“And I’m floating in the most peculiar way,” she whispered into Harry’s beautiful hair, before the rest of the song got lost on her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, songs quoted in this chapter include:
> 
> "Don't Stop Me Now" by Queen, and
> 
> "Space Oddity" by David Bowie (lines of which also found their way into the title of the previous chapter)
> 
> Give 'em a listen, if you can. They're gorgeous.


	5. A Hard-Boiled, Scamming Bitch

Tris was woken up by an insistent vibrating sound. She blinked her eyes open with considerable hardship and threw a glance over to her alarm clock on the night stand.

 

_9:12 a.m._

 

“Ugh,” she made. As if the vibrating had taken note of her disapproval it stopped before she could localise its source. But by now her brain had started waking up despite her displeasure at having been ripped out of sleep, accompanied by the desperate wish to go back there a.s.a.p.; and she registered a pair of arms wound tightly around her midsection, and a nice-smelling, warm body attached to her back like a blanket.

 

_Harry._

 

She pushed herself into the heat behind her, the heat grumbled and pulled her in, and Tris decided that she could very well spend the rest of her life here, if not for the fact that…

She gave a small, frustrated huff. A somewhat uneasy feeling had settled in her stomach over the last minute. Her brain was active enough by now to not only classify the vibrations from before as her phone making noise, but also to become increasingly aware of the fact that she had scheduled two free days for herself after the Madison Square Garden concert yesterday. Her parents, her friends and her manager all knew that she wasn’t exactly a morning person, especially not on her free days, and she couldn’t possibly think of a single reason why they would call her, except for…

The vibrating started again.

“…an emergency,” she finished her thought, half-whispering, and in the next moment she was wide awake and out of bed, struggling to find her purse, wherever the hell she had left _that_ yesterday.

She found it close to the entrance of her apartment (apparently she had let go of it when Harry had lifted her up and kissed her into oblivion, not that she would have noticed), opened it and grabbed her phone. By the time she held it in her hands, it had stopped vibrating once again, but as the display showed very clearly…

 

_16 missed calls from Donovan, Callisto_

 

_38 messages on WhatsApp_

 

“Shit.”

Some part of her was very relieved that it wasn’t her Mum or her Dad or one of her friends having called 16 times, meaning that there hadn’t been some sort emergency with one of them; but she had never seen her manager call her more often than five times in a row. And five times meant: really fucking important.

Tris gulped. She had no idea what 16 calls from Callie signified. And she wasn’t sure whether she really wanted to find out.

For a few moments she considered reading the messages first, but if it _was_ the sort of big, terrible emergency she expected it to be, that would only make it worse for her. Better to call Callie and let the bad news rain down on her in a nice and compact lecture.

Tris slid her finger across the screen and her phone started dialling, while the uneasy feeling in her guts slowly but surely grew out of proportion.

It rang once, twice.

“Finally,” Callie’s sharp New York accent greeted her on the other end of the line.

“Sorry,” Tris mumbled, her voice still a little sleep-heavy. “What’s the matter?”

“Oh my God, you don’t know yet, do you?”

A panicky burst of adrenaline shot straight into Tris’ bloodstream.

“Know what exactly?”

A pause.

“Callie, please talk to me. What happened?”

“Your little – stunt. At the Madison Square concert yesterday.”

Tris felt her cheeks flush with sudden heat, as she tripped over her own tongue.

“I know that was a little over the top. But…but you know after what Miley did at the VMAs. Or what Nicki is doing, basically, all the time? That was. I mean…”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about,” Callie interrupted her stammering. “It was scandalous and all, but a little scandal never killed nobody, especially in the business you’re in. If I had been able to make it, and not gotten stuck at an airport in Tokyo, I would have applauded you. Even though I suppose Jeff has already done that for me. Do you have anything to sit down on?”

Tris felt her mouth go dry. “Uh, yeah.” She made short work of herself and sat down on the floor.

“Are you sitting tight?”

“As possible. Could you put me out of my misery now, please? I’m panicking.”

Callie sighed. “There are, of course, articles out already, most of them praising your performance as one of a lifetime, some of them stating that you’re a slut, and a few choice ones stating that you’re a fame-hungry slut who slept her way to the top.”

“Okay. Fine. Business as usual.”

Callie sighed. “Well. Nearly. The problem, the actual problem, is a lengthy article published this morning among the others, written by a certain Jim Masters, lead singer and guitarist of the somewhat famous British indie band _Hexagon.”_

Tris’ heart sank.

“Mr. Masters is stating, in a very believable way, underlined by photos and concert footage, that you are not only a fame-hungry slut, but also responsible for destroying his former band that enabled you to launch your solo career and provided you with the first songs that made you famous. He explains, in detail, how you lied to him for months while your career was already taking off, stole his music, broke up with him by fucking his best friend, and then went on your merry way to earn millions upon millions of dollars on the other side of the pond, while he never got to see a single penny of his hard work.”

Tris was glad that Callie had made her sit down. For a moment she thought she was going to pass out. Unable to form a single word she kept listening to the horror she had hoped against hope would never come her way. _You’ve been too happy. You didn’t deserve it._ A small voice reminded her, and streaks of wetness started clouding her vision.

“I said before, a little scandal never killed nobody. But this scandal is not a little one. It is very, very capable of ruining your career forever. This is America, which means people have an opinion of your morals and that opinion influences your market value immediately, no matter how great you look, or how good your songs are, or how flawlessly you perform. If Mr. Masters’ opinion of you becomes the public opinion in America, which is a likely scenario at this point in time, judging by the calls I have received in the last two hours, you’ll have to go look for another job.”

Tears slipped down Tris’ cheeks in silence. She wasn’t able to answer.

“Are you still there, Tris?”, Callie asked, a little less harshly now.

“I didn’t steal his music,” Tris finally managed. “That’s a lie. I never stole his music. Every single one of my songs was written entirely by me. I showed Jim some of my early material, privately, but it was never intended for the band. He didn’t…he didn’t even particularly like it. It was always – my stuff. No one even read over it, or re-wrote it, or any of the sort.”

“I know,” Callie said. “I know you. And I know what standards you hold yourself to. But that…is going to be incredibly hard to prove. Mr. Masters worked a sufficient amount of truth into his story to make the lies probable enough for people to believe them.”  
Another pause.

“There is a lot of truth to his story, isn’t there, Tris?”, Callie added.

Tris breathed in and out, very deeply, like her singing coach had shown her, while she tried to collect her thoughts. The news had broken. There was no reason for her to withhold anything any more. With a decisive gesture she wiped the tears from her face as best she could.

“We were four people, originally, doing some sort of rock-indie-thing, back in Salisbury. We were good, but never brilliant; always played gigs, sometimes even in London, but not really on the big stages. I had been writing music on the side as long as the band existed, and I showed some of it to Jim, like I told you, but it didn’t really strike him as anything special, and he didn’t see it working for the band, either. So it stayed there, waiting, in my drawers. Jim was my boyfriend at the time, too. I should probably mention that.”

Tris could feel herself grow calmer. Talking about it was surprisingly freeing. Callie showed no sign of wanting to cut her story short, so she kept speaking.

“One time we played a fairly normal-sized crowd in a venue in London. It was a nice gig. The people there liked us. Afterwards a man in a suit came up to me, while my bandmates were having a beer. They asked me later if he had been hitting on me.”

Tris gave a short, bleak attempt at a laugh.

“He introduced himself as Bob Singer, manager, gave me his card, and told me I was wasting my time with my band. He wanted to make something more out of me, because he saw more in me than what I was doing then. Honestly, what kind of artist would say _no_ to that opportunity? I rang him up right the next day and played him some of my stuff. That was on Monday. We signed our management contract on Wednesday.

“And then my double-life began. I was still practicing with the band, while simultaneously visiting studios and labels with my new manager, recording solo demos and shaking hands. I signed a contract with a medium-sized label only a few weeks later, something my band had dreamed about for years. Around that time my relationship with Jim went downhill.

“We were constantly at each other’s throats, and he started spending his nights at other girls’ places. He apologised every time, but he didn’t stop, and in the end I sucked his best friend’s dick to prove my point. Very mature, I know. But then _that_ was over. The band still existed, though, anyway. We rehearsed together twice a week, unless I missed rehearsal, which happened more and more. I didn’t tell them. First, because I wasn’t sure whether my so-called solo career was actually something that was happening, later, because I didn’t want them to envy me for my luck, and then, after that, because it was way too late to tell them anyway, and also because I was still mad at Jim. Some part of me wanted to screw him over royally, despite the fact that I’d already had my petty revenge on him, and that I’d have to screw two other people who had nothing to do with anything over along the way.

“I came clean three days before I flew to New York to film my first music video. I remember it vividly. I have never seen such disappointment in someone’s eyes. Jim looked like he was going to throw something at me. I think they broke up very shortly after. Nobody wished me luck. It didn’t matter. The moment my feet touched ground in the U.S. I was successful. Bob hired me a new, America-savvy management. You know the rest.”

Callie remained quiet for a few seconds, until she was sure that Tris had nothing more to say. “I hate to break it to you, girl, but you were a real asshole to these guys.”

“I was,” Tris sighed. “And I wish I could take it back. I wish I’d told them. I really do. But it’s too late and now it’s Jim’s turn to get comeuppance. How much will I have to pay in contractual penalty, if I step out of our management agreement?”

“Woah. Woah, woah, woah, Tris, hang on a second! It ain’t over til the fat lady sings; and unless you start eating vast amounts of Ben & Jerry’s very very soon, that’s not happening.”

Tris blinked in confusion. “You said I’d need to look for another job…”

“No, I said, it’s a likely scenario at the moment that the public opinion on you in America will turn. I didn’t say there was nothing we could do. You’re a brilliant singer, you have fans, and you just had a fantastic performance with one of the biggest pop stars the world has ever seen. Let’s not cut and run right away.”

“So, what should I do?” Tris’ voice was shaking.

Callie cleared her throat. “I would suggest three concrete things. And one that’s – not quite as concrete yet.”

Tris bit her lower lip and tried to keep the emerging bubble of hope in her chest from growing too fast. This was a dire situation, and just because Callie had a plan didn’t mean that Tris wasn’t majorly screwed regardless.

“One: Go on social media. Show yourself, show that you are not afraid of these allegations, and tell the truth. Especially about the – hm – delicate stuff, too. Even though you didn’t make all the right decisions, people will reflect on the fact that _he_ cheated on _you_ first. Women are, as everybody knows, very emotion-driven and do stupid things when it comes to men. That’s going to give you a free pass on the fucking-his-best-friend-topic at least.”

 _And this is why you hire America-savvy management,_ Tris thought to herself, while Callie continued.

“Two: I called my favourite lawyers, who agreed to be your favourite lawyers for the time being. We need to issue a legal statement, in case Jim comes after you from the juridical side. Three: You could use a friend. A famous friend. With a solid standing in the public eye. Jeff has told me that Harry and you are on good terms. It would help, if he dropped a few lines in an interview or two, about you being a _very_ trustworthy person, who would _never_ steal anyone’s music and-”  
“I can’t ask Harry to do that,” Tris interrupted.  
“Why not?”

“After everything that’s in the press right now, he has every reason to believe that I _am_ the hard-boiled, scamming bitch Jim is making me out to be. It wouldn’t be very ethical to ask him to put in a good word for me that he can’t commit to.”

Callie sighed. “Dear God, Tris, you’re such a hopeless case sometimes. Hard-boiled bitch, my ass. Who invented that? M. Night Shyamalan?”

That made Tris laugh, and Callie gave a small chuckle in return.

“Alright, maybe think about it, at least. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good. The last thing I have is more than vague, and I would advise you to proceed with the utmost caution on that front.”  
“What are you talking about?”

Callie made a small pause. “Jim Masters has contacted me through Bob. He wants…how did he call it? A private conversation with you.”

A cold shiver ran down Tris’ back. “Did he say why?”

“No. As I already told you: It’s all very vague. But…in my opinion, you should meet him. Accompanied, of course, not alone. It would – send a good statement to the public. A statement that says, loud and clear: I am willing to negotiate and right my wrongs.”

“Okay,” Tris retorted, even though what she wanted most right now was to scream down the line that she would never see that man again if she could help it. But Callie was potentially saving her arse at the moment, job-wise, and not going through with another one of her suggestions, after she’d already ruled Harry out, didn’t seem like a good idea.

“That’s everything, I suppose. But Tris-“

“Yeah.”

“Don’t let it get to yourself too much. People are going to talk, and it’s not going to be fun for you in the next few weeks. Don’t search out the hate. Find something to hold on to. And remember that there’s so much more to your life than just your public persona. Keep your head up, okay, girl? Promise?”

“Promise,” Tris said, and Callie hung up.

A few seconds passed, maybe half a minute, that Tris spent sitting in her nightgown, staring silently at the opposite wall of the hallway, until the tears came back, bitter, full of self-pity and impossible to hold in, streaming down her face and wringing ugly sobs from her throat

Then, suddenly, someone was sitting next to her and putting his arms around her, warm, strong and welcome.

“Oh my God,” she forced out in between sobs. “I’m sorry you have to see me like…”

“It’s alright. Don’t you worry about that.” Harry's hand was stroking her hair and her fingers clenched around his upper arm, her tears wetting the collar of his shirt.

“Did you- did you hear…?”

“Yeah. I guess I caught the important parts.” His hand had wandered down from her head, and proceeded to rub soothing circles on her back. “You were wrong about a few things, though.”

“Hm?”

“I have no, absolutely no reason to believe that you are the hard-boiled, scamming bitch some idiot in Salisbury is making you out to be. But I have _every_ reason to believe that you are the lovely, gracious person I’ve come to know, and also, a real artist. And I’ll make sure that every interviewer who wants a piece of my mind in the next few weeks agrees with me on that.”

That made Tris cry even harder into his shirt, and Harry gave a confused noise. “Did I – say something wrong?”

“No…no I think that was one of the greatest things anyone has ever said to me. And I…” A sob escaped her throat. “I really don’t deserve it, after what I’ve-”

“Shhh,” Harry made, “Stop putting yourself down. We all make mistakes. You’re not the only one in this room to regret things.” He pulled her in closer. “But don’t you ever believe that your mistakes automatically make you a bad person. Or one any less deserving of kindness,” he added, pressing a kiss into her hair.

Tris was unable to say anything to that. There was simply no adequate expression in the English language to convey the gratitude she was feeling. So she remained quiet, while tears kept streaming down her cheeks, drenching Harry’s shirt.

He sat with her, until they ran dry.


	6. Something Really Stupid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I noticed how INSANELY much Harry and Tris are cussing. Like, oh my God. If I'd tally up the times one or both of them have used the word "fuck" in this story up to this point, it might take me a while. I was considering cutting at least some of the swearing out, but then I watched the "Behind the Album" documentary again, saw Harry sing "why are we always fucking running from the bullets" in the original version of SOTT, shrugged and left it in. (Also, who am I kidding, this is rated E anyway, you guys would be disappointed with fewer cuss words, wouldn't you?)
> 
> Have fun :D

“This is such a fucking mess,” Tris mumbled into Harry’s shoulder.

Her tears had dried up, and Harry’s hand was still tangled in her hair. Slowly but surely she managed to muster up an appropriate amount of embarrassment about her nervous breakdown, and decided that it was way past due to pull away, sit up and get some of her dignity back, unless she wanted to bury the rest of her self-esteem right here and now.

Harry let go of her somewhat reluctantly, as if he wasn’t sure whether she would break down again immediately, if he didn’t keep the body contact up, and Tris attempted a smile in his direction as soon as she’d straightened her back against the wall. He was wearing the same black shirt he’d worn to dinner yesterday, but now there was a big, watery stain on it, stretching over his left shoulder and down his neckline.

“I hope that’s not silk,” Tris said, her voice still a little rough from crying. “Would be a shame if I ruined it.”

Harry gave a soft laugh, and it was only then that Tris noticed how beautiful he looked in the light of the late morning sun streaming in through the windows. His dark hair was curling down to his shoulders, still somewhat messy from sleep, and there was a brightness in his eyes that provided her heart with a small but noticeable upswing.

“I think I’ll survive,” he retorted, the corners of his mouth curving upwards.  
Tris looked at him apologetically.

“How long are you here for, anyway?” she asked, suddenly remembering that she wasn’t the only one on a schedule.

“My next concert is in Washington, on Sunday. I’m taking the plane tomorrow night. Thought I’d spend my free Friday and Saturday here in the city. New York is beautiful this time of year.”

“You can use the time off. Touring really wears you out. And, honestly, two days in between concerts is still tight. You must be exhausted,” Tris responded, glad about the change of subject that gave her the opportunity to regain some of her composure.

Harry let his head fall back against the wall with a sigh, his eyes set to some point on the ceiling above them. “Yeah, I guess I am. But I only have to hold on until mid-July. Then I’ll have all the time in the world to go on holidays and do nothing.”  
“Oh, don’t kid yourself. Holidays, my arse. You’re going to get bored after two days of doing nothing, tops, and then you’ll be back in the studio to write new, amazing music.”  
He shot her a sidelong glance. “How do you know that?”

“Cause I know a workaholic when I see one.”  
“Mh. Takes one to know one, though.”

“Touché.” A small, honest laugh stumbled over her lips with the word, making Harry turn his head towards her and fixate her with his eyes.

“What are you doing mid-July, Beatrice?”, he asked, conversationally.

The question sent a warm feeling through her body, despite its non-committal nature, and she hurried to answer it.

“I’ll be here, in the studio. Working. If – well, if I still have a job come July.”

“Do you have anything written yet?” Harry asked, overt curiosity in his expression.

Tris tilted her head to the side. “Mostly ideas. Half-cooked licks, some lyrics, and stuff that landed on the cutting room floor when I made my debut album. Nothing really _shaped_ yet, though.”

Harry looked down at his nails. The pink polish had chipped off a little, and he’d neglected to put his rings back on after climbing out of bed.

“Same here.” He made a pause, before his head came back up, and his eyes were on Tris’ once more. “Do you… I mean, I don’t know if you’d want to, but maybe, when my tour is over and I get bored on my holidays, and you’re in the studio anyway, we could…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. Something very, very reminiscent of actual happiness surged through Tris’ stomach up into her chest.

“Harry,” she said, putting a hand on his forearm. “Are you asking me to cut a record with you?”

He smiled at her, somewhat coyly. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Tris swallowed. “Are you…are you sure? Because if I happen to have ruined my career forever, making music with me wouldn’t be very good for your image. You’d get in trouble with your fans, and your manager, and the press. That’s not what I’d want for you at all. You have to think of yourself first and foremost.”

The arm that she was resting her hand on moved, and then Harry’s fingers weaved through hers. He was looking at her with intent now, and Tris felt her heart pick up pace. “I _am_ thinking of myself, actually. Yesterday on stage with you was…special,” he said, softly. “I haven’t had that feeling of being _involved_ in my music this way for quite some time. But when we were singing together it was… different. Like…”

He struggled for words, and Tris completed the sentence for him.

“Like performing it for the very first time. With all the right emotions hitting the notes alongside your voice, making it impossibly, beautifully, precisely what it needed to be.”

Harry didn’t answer. His eyes were still focused on Tris’, though, twisting her insides into nervous knots. A moment later his mouth was on hers, taking her breath away for a mindless second before leaving her again, but not pulling away too far, his face remaining firmly inside her personal space.

“Yes,” he breathed against her lips. “ _Exactly._ You felt it, too, didn’t you?”

Tris let her hand come up and settle in his hair. “That’s an understatement. When I was on that stage I thought, _fuck, I never want to stop singing with him, ever again_. Writing with you would be…God, I want to, I really really want to. More than anything. But…”

She felt Harry’s free hand take hold of the back of her head with confidence. “No _but_ s. Fuck public opinion. We want to make music together, we make music together. And it’s gonna be great, it’s gonna be so fucking great, no one will care about anything else.”

Tris could nearly taste the excitement on his breath, pulling her along, and this time it was her who took his mouth, her teeth at his bottom lip, kissing him with the same conviction she would have signed a contract with; and maybe that was what this actually was: A contract obliging them both to make music and take names, no matter what was to come. She let go of Harry for a moment and looked at him, exhilaration in her veins.

“Fucking public opinion feels damn good,” she muttered.

“Tell me about it,” he gave back, a lopsided, irresistible smile on his lips that prompted Tris to get back to kissing him immediately. Her hands worked the buttons of his shirt open, exposing the tattoos on his chest, and then she did exactly what she’d promised herself the evening before, letting the tip of her tongue follow the black lines of the birds on his chest, and then moving on further down to the butterfly, Harry’s hands and his desperate breath in her hair. She didn't pause to think about what it was saying about her that her knee-jerk-reaction to a challenging situation coupled with an emotional cocktail of intense variety was to initiate sex, but then, psychology had never been her forte. Sex on the other hand...

“ _Shit,”_ Harry cursed when her hand found the half-hard outline of his cock through his boxer briefs, and she was glad that, while he was wearing a shirt, he had not, in fact, made the effort to put on trousers.

“Mmmmm,” she purred into the warm skin of his belly. “This is a _really_ uncomfortable position to be sucking you off in.”

Harry pulled in a sharp breath and his cock jerked against Tris’ palm.

“You sure you want to…?”

She grinned up at him and squeezed with her hand. “Does that look any less than sure to you?”

  
Harry shook his head. His pupils were dilated and his fingers were clinging to her shoulder. “Then how do you want me?” he asked, a mere whisper, and Tris’ grin grew out of her face.

She got up and pulled Harry with her towards the bathroom, where she turned the water in the shower on and adjusted it to the right temperature with a quick movement of her hands, before looking back at Harry, who had already shaken off his shirt and gotten rid of his underwear in the meantime, smiling at her as she followed his example and pulled her negligee over her head. Stepping backwards into the shower, where the warm spray of water started to drench her hair and her skin, she stretched out her hand towards Harry, who readily let himself be pulled with her once more. He closed the glass door behind them, while Tris attached her lips to his neck, and then she spun them both around so Harry was comfortably leaning against the tiles. His head was sinking back with a sigh as she went to her knees, pressing a few stray kisses to his abdomen, taking a moment to marvel at the way the drops of water were clinging to his skin.

When she put her hands to his hips and took him in her mouth for the first time she felt a shudder go through his whole body, accompanied by a deep moan. It was probably the sexiest sound Tris had ever heard, and her right hand let go of Harry and jerked downwards between her own legs, while her mouth started working him in earnest, wringing more low noises from his throat.

“Oh my God, you’re… _fuck,”_ he brought out, and his hand settled in Tris’ wet hair, combing through it, while she kept going.

She was so immersed in what she was doing that she only noticed how very close Harry was when his fingertips started digging into her scalp. Without letting go she looked up at him through her lashes, while the water from the showerhead kept raining down on her, making her blink rapidly through the wetness. Harry’s mouth stood slightly open, his hair was clinging to his cheekbones in wet strands, his eyes were fixed on her, full of want, and Tris let her left hand wander up to his neck and softly touched her thumb to his pulse point, while her tongue pressed against the underside of his cock. His eyes fell shut, his legs started shaking and Tris could feel him try to pull her off, but she wouldn’t have any of it, keeping her mouth around him and sucking him through it, until she could taste salt and iron on her tongue.

She let go, then, with a final kiss to the laurel on his right hip and got up. Her knees were aching a little, but she hardly noticed it, when Harry took her face in his hands and kissed the taste of himself out of her mouth.

“Are you okay?” he murmured against her lips.

She brushed his hair back and smiled at him. “More than that. And you?”

He let out a deep breath. “Not sure if I’ll ever recover from you. I feel like flying. Not likely to touch ground any time soon.” He kissed her again, more gently this time, and Tris slung her arms around him, put her hands on his shoulder blades and pulled him in, so she could feel most of his skin touch most of hers.

“You need to stop doing that,” she murmured into his neck.

“What?” he asked.

“Say such beautiful things.”

“Why?” He stepped back and put a little space between them, so they were looking at each other again.  
“Cause I might forget about myself and do something really stupid,” Tris retorted. She wanted to cast her eyes away, but the expression on Harry’s face made it impossible to look anywhere else.

“And what would that be?”

Harry’s voice was soft, and the words left her lips like they were being pulled out of her throat and towards him by some sort of gravitational force. “Falling in love with you.”

Her heart stopped and sank immediately after, just like earlier, when Callie had broken the bad news, while she waited for Harry’s face to drop.

 _Why the fuck would you say that, Tris?,_ a small, rational voice started screaming at her on the inside. _Oh my God. Oh my God. This is literally THE ONE THING you DON’T SAY TO A ONE-NIGHT-STAND who is ALSO YOUR COLLEAGUE, you stupid, stupid GIRL._

Harry’s expression hadn’t changed yet. He was still looking at her head-on. “Then at least we’d both be doing the same stupid thing,” he said, at last.

It took Tris about ten seconds to process what she had just heard.

“Are you…?” she asked, completely dumbfounded. “I mean…are you…?”

Harry bit his lip, and suddenly his expression was shifting into something a little more nervous. “Falling head over heels for you? Pretty much since our first rehearsal. But I was positive you didn’t like me that way. Which I was okay with. And then, well, yesterday happened.” His eyes were searching hers. “What about you?”

Tris let out a breath she hadn’t noticed she’d been holding. “Jesus, Harry, I’m…I… I like to keep business business and my private life private, as a general rule, but – goddammit, you’ve been running my barriers down ever since before the show yesterday when I was dying of stage fright and you were just _there_ , and then you did your brilliant fucking performance, and last night was simply _amazing_ and…fuck, I just don’t know how the fuck I’m supposed to stop feeling like… Jesus Christ, Harry, you’re getting to me. You really, really are.”

A slow smile had settled on Harry’s lips. “Sorry.”

Tris’ eyebrows folded in on themselves. “Oh, come on, don’t even pretend like you’re-“

She had to stop speaking, because Harry interrupted her with a kiss that quickly turned into a make-out session against the shower wall, while the warm water proceeded to pour down on them.

“You’re right, I’m not sorry,” he finally said, letting go of her, his lips red and swollen from kissing. He was smiling, but there was a certain seriousness in his eyes.

“I’m not sorry, either,” Tris retorted, surprised at how very much she meant it. “Even though this might be the first time in my life that I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing, or how to stop myself from doing it… But…I’m fine with it, actually.”

Harry’s knuckles brushed her cheek. “I think I know what you mean,” he said. “It’s like sitting in the passenger seat of a car and you can’t control where you’re going, or even how fast. You just have to have faith that you’re going to arrive in the right place, in one piece.”

Tris wanted to reply, but Harry was kissing her again, and she decided that whatever she’d been meaning to say could wait.


	7. How Tris Callahan Fooled Me, My Bandmates And All Of You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fuck you, Jim.  
> I know I invented you.  
> But fuck you.

Tris’ finger hovered over the „Tweet“ button for about twenty seconds, before she finally pressed it, chewing nervously on her bottom lip while the video uploaded to the website.

Harry had left about three hours ago to check with Jeff and run a few errands in town, and Tris was glad that he’d given her some space to get herself back on track and do what Callie had advised her to do.

She’d first contemplated to go live for a Q&A, but then she’d scrolled through her social media feeds and realised that at least thirty percent of the questions (leaving the vast amount of insults and “please follow me”s out of the equation) had nothing to do with Jim’s allegations – and _everything_ to do with Harry Styles, and whether they were sleeping with each other. Since she really didn't want to talk about that specific subject for several good reasons, she’d put on her most business-like dress, done her hair and make-up and sat down to write a short script for herself, addressing everything but the “Are-you-and-Harry-doing-it?”- question, before filming it with her tablet and posting it on Twitter.

As soon as the video was up, Tris opened her mail account and typed a short e-mail, including the video in the attachment and asking Callie to put it up on her Facebook-page as well.

She clicked “Send”, before she realised that she had a new mail from Callie from half an hour ago that she hadn’t looked at yet:

 

_Hello, Tris._

_My lawyers, who are now your lawyers, have issued a short statement; you’ll find it attached. We’re going to keep it in the drawers, just in case you need it, but maybe read it, so you can use some of the phrasing in interviews._

_Speaking of interviews: Thirteen magazines have asked for heart-to-hearts. I’ve told them all no, except for Time Magazine, because Billie is a friend of mine and she’s going to make sure the article reflects well on you, and Vogue, because they didn’t even mention the allegations, and only wanted you for a short fall/winter style thing. I’ve scheduled Time for tomorrow 9 a.m. sharp at the Four Seasons, and Vogue at 4 p.m. in the same place…_

Tris sighed. Great. That was her free day, gone up in smoke.

 

_Jeff has called me two hours ago, telling me that Harry is adamant that he’s going to do a musical project with you in July when his tour is finished. I asked him whether he’d wised Mr Styles up about the possible repercussions working with you at such a critical time in your career could bring for him, and Jeff said that he’d very much done that, but that Harry was stubborn like an ox and had – I quote – decided to “f*** public opinion in the a**” on this particular topic. Jeff, being Jeff, seems to respect that. I don’t know what you did, Tris, but this is a good development. People love Harry. And Harry seems to genuinely like you._

She had to stop, close her eyes and utter a heartfelt _thank you_ to whatever entity had put Harry Styles in her life at a time like this, before she read on.

 

_In other news, I have arranged a date with Mr Masters for us. He is already in NYC, we’re going to meet him tomorrow for lunch, between your interviews. (Don’t kick me in the a** for designing this schedule, I only want to get this over as quickly as we can so you can go back to song-writing, and he can go back to Salisbury and f*** himself.)_

_Have you already put up a statement on social media? If not, better get to it, the more time passes, the less convincing you will look. If you’re unsure or need help with how to go about it, call me. (You’re not going to, though, are you?)_

_Love, CD_

Tris sighed deeply and opened the attachment. It was two pages of juridical technicalities and she tried to memorise a few phrases for the Time interview tomorrow (things like: _our client has not infringed Mr Masters’ intellectual property rights at any point in time,_ and _any and all allegations Mr Masters is making are heavily objected against by our client,_ and _Mr Masters has no substantiated legal claims to our client’s intellectual property_ ), but soon gave up, because her head started aching.

She leaned against the backrest of her office chair and looked out of the window to her left, over the strikingly green tree crowns of Central Park. The sky was appropriately grey, it was slightly raining, and Tris thought about the disastrous lunch date she had in front of her. She could only assume what Jim could want from her, but none of the things she counted up in her head seemed particularly inviting.

Maybe he wanted her to be publicly humiliated. But since he’d already thrown dirt on her from nearly every possible angle with his article, there wasn’t a lot more to do for him on that front, unless he wanted her to fall on her knees and apologise to him on national TV or something equally bonkers.

Or he was going for legal proceedings. Potentially the worst option, because that would mean mutual mud-slinging with plenty of ugly, private details in front of _journalists_ , and this was something that would _definitely_ put an end to Tris’ wavering career in America, hands down. But then, if Jim wanted to go to court, Tris would already know about it. And he had to be aware that she could afford very, very expensive lawyers, which was at least some kind of deterrent.

Which left the most obvious motif: Money. And yeah, that sounded like Jim.

“You fucking dick,” Tris murmured. “You fucking dick and your fucking dick-move of an article.”

She hadn’t read it, still, because Callie’s advice had left an impression: _Don’t search out the hate._ But Tris knew that she’d eventually have to flip through it. She would bet her left arm that every journalist under the sun – including Billie from Time Mag – had read it at least once, and if Tris wanted to be able to make some sensible statements in her interview tomorrow, she’d better make the hell sure to have an idea what she was talking about.

Before she could think about it any further she’d already opened up Google and typed: “Tris Callahan Jim Masters article” into the search bar. She clicked the first link the search engine provided her with and found herself forwarded to the website of an online magazine that she’d never heard the name of. The title of the article read:

 

**_Nothing on her mind: How Tris Callahan fooled me, my bandmates and all of you_ **

_By Jim Masters_

Tris’ jaw clenched at the reference to her song. She had never felt the urge to punch someone to the extent she did right now, but maybe being angry wasn’t the worst option, because if she weren’t she’d probably be crying, and there had decidedly been more than enough tears for one day today.

 

_Tris Callahan is a superstar, the new face of pop music, hailed by fans and critics alike and bombarded with awards for her debut album “Miles To Go”. She’s only gotten bigger since her first international tour last year, now performing on stage with pop icons like ex-1D-star Harry Styles, and soon to be releasing her next album, for sure. She’s a musical mastermind with a fantastic voice, an infectious laugh, sexy and charming, authentic and honest, stylish and fresh, the next puzzle piece of the British Invasion…_

_This is what you believe. What she led you believe. But Tris Callahan is not her public image. The Tris Callahan you think you know? She’s a lie. A fraud. A scammer. I’m saying this to you, because you deserve to hear the truth about my ex-bandmate, ex-girlfriend, and ex-cowriter..._

“EX-COWRITER???!!!! YOU FUCKING…” Tris interrupted herself and breathed. In. Out. She kept reading.

 

_My conscience has been demanding to tell you the truth ever since Tris’ music career took off last March, but I was afraid of the consequences: Lawsuits, online hate, the end of my new band “Hexagon” that I’m trying to keep alive with the material I still have – the material my ex hasn’t taken with her to America. I’m still scared of all these things. But you deserve to know. You deserve the truth. And you deserve people who stand up for it, screw the consequences._

After that small but powerful intro the sob story started. Including photos, video footage and personal notes, Jim painted a picture of an idyllic and creative life that Tris destroyed in her hunger for fame and recognition, taking his precious work and leaving him to starve in Great Britain. Tris was happy that she hadn’t read the article before she’d filmed her statement video, because she could never have stayed as calm as she’d been with _this_ in the back of her mind.

The article was very well-written, she had to give Jim that, and she wasn’t surprised in the least that this was a story people were eating up; not only because it was scandalous, but because even _she_ found herself feeling inadvertently sorry for Jim’s fictionalised version of himself while reading. If things had really happened the way he was writing about them, she’d hate Tris Callahan, too…

But then, they hadn’t. There were a few points Jim didn’t mention at all (like, for example, the several one-night-stands he’d had while they’d still been together). And another few points that were flat-out lies (like the part about her stealing his songs). But differentiating the truths from the half-truths and the non-truths would be incredibly difficult for her to do in a discussion, Callie had been absolutely right about that.

When Tris had finally worked herself through at least 3000 words of expertly-written bullshit and arrived at the last section of the article she was surprised to see it dedicated to her:

 

_Tris, should you read this, just know that you’ve hurt me. Hurt us, Mike and Jerry and me. Still, I don’t hate you, and I’m not writing this article as petty revenge. But they deserve to know. This is my confession – and maybe, just maybe, you’ll see it as your confession, too. You’ve been lying for so long, and some part of me wants to believe, desperately, that you’ve lied, not because you wanted to deceive us, but because you’ve never been strong enough to tell the truth. Now I’m doing it for you. I hope you understand._

Tris slammed the laptop shut, angry tears burning in her eyes. She wanted to scream, but nothing came out. Jim had written words upon words on her lies, when it was _him_ who was lying through his teeth. His article was _nothing_ but revenge, and that last paragraph was probably the most genius thing about it, selling it as anything but. Callie had told her once that when you get famous, the one thing people love more than loving you is finding a reason to hate you. Jim had recognised that fact and used it in the best possible way: To his advantage.

She got up and marched over into the kitchen. There was a secret stash of chocolate in the upper drawer of her cupboard, and she grabbed the first bar she could get her hands on, didn’t even bother to break a piece off, took it with her to the desk instead and just went to town. She was halfway through it when the doorbell rang.

With a deep groan at having to move she got up and answered it.

Opening her apartment door she found Harry in front of it, a pair of heavenly-smelling brown paper bags in his hands and a smile on his lips that slightly faded when he saw the expression on her face.

“Oh no. You’ve read it, haven’t you?”  
Tris nodded. “Had to. I’m meeting him tomorrow.”

“Shit,” Harry said, with feeling. “Well, I’ve got burgers for a late lunch. I thought you might like something to eat.” He didn’t step through the door, though, adding a quiet: “Unless you don’t want my company right now. That’s okay, by the way, I can leave the burgers and-“

“Your company is the best thing that’s happening to me today, Harry. And if you’re fine with the worst company in the world – which would be me, by the way – I’d love to have lunch with you. But you should think about it. The MoMA is a lot more fun than me at the moment.”

“I’d take you over the MoMA any day,” he replied, bowed forward and gave her a small kiss, chased by one of his sunniest smiles; and Tris felt the world around her become a little less grey, when he slipped past her, toed off his shoes and made his way towards the kitchen.

“Thank you _,_ ” she murmured to the universe once more, before turning on her heels and following the scent of burgers.


	8. Flesh To My Bones

“Do you believe that this is a ploy to destroy your career?”

Billie blinked at her through her frameless, angular glasses with interest, and Tris changed the position of her legs while she thought about how to answer. As it had turned out, Billie Thomas from Time magazine was a stern-looking, thin woman in her late forties, who asked very straightforward questions. It was obvious why Callie and her got along so well – she was just as down-to-business as Tris’ manager, and projected the same scarily competent aura.

Tris threw a glance over to Callie who was sitting at the other side of the hotel suite on the couch, listening to the interview and taking a few notes in her black, old-school paper notebook along the way. Her chestnut brown hair was twisted into a perfect bun at the back of her head, and her clear-cut, somewhat ageless face was scrunched up in concentration. Tris had seen lots of folk run scared of her over the year she’d been in her management: Callie’s attitude and intelligence coupled with her good looks usually didn’t get along well with people’s inferiority complexes.

She turned her attention back to her interviewer, “Well, let me put it this way, Billie. I know a little bit about revenge. My short-lived affair with Jim’s best friend was nothing but revenge. And when I didn’t tell my band about what I was planning to do with my career, there was also a little revenge in that – revenge that hit the wrong people, sadly, but I was too caught up in my anger to see that at the time. Having been together with Jim, I know that he knows a few things about revenge, too. The way I understand it, he’s still trying to get back at me for what I did. That’s very human, and understandable, and I’ve done similar things in order to get comeuppance, that I deeply regret. The fact that Jim is lying about something so big and essential to a musician’s career as stealing creative property, the fact that he’s incorporating information that’s not true into an article that contains a lot of truth, making it difficult for anyone to track where truth ends and lies begin, the timing of its release – those are very telling signs to me that this is not about confessing anything, but, in fact, very much about revenge. So, yes, I do believe that he is personally attacking me where he knows it hurts me the most: My reputation as an artist.”

Billie nodded. “Okay, thank you. Now, the last question, Tris. Something a little nicer. You mentioned the timing of the article, the morning after what I believe was your biggest concert to date, two days ago, at Madison Square Garden with a young man called Harry Styles. Are we going to see any more of you two together in the future?”

Tris gave a small laugh. “He’s one of the people who have not stopped talking to me yesterday morning. No, really he has been fantastic. Supportive. Kind. I am incredibly glad to know him, and to be able to talk to him in this critical time. He is a true gentleman, in every sense of the word. And an amazing artist as well. I’ve had an absolute blast with him on that concert, and I’d love to cooperate with him again in the future. Sadly, I can’t tell you more yet. Maybe I’ll come back to you on it in a few months, though.”

Billie nodded again, switched her recorder off and stood up. Tris rose from her chair as well, while the journalist packed her bag. When she was done she stretched her hand out towards Tris, and Tris grabbed it and shook it.

“Thank you for the interview, Tris. Between us, this is a terrible business. But you’re a strong woman. Remember that. Don’t give up. And since you have the best management an artist like you can have, your chances to get out of this disaster are good.” She gave Callie, who was walking towards them, a rare smile.

“You’re giving me too much credit, Billie. Thanks for coming in. You’re the only one who got an interview, by the way, I hope you appreciate it,” Callie said, the corners of her mouth curving upwards.

“Oh, you know I do, Callie. It’ll be out on Monday. I’ll have to call in a few favours for the short-notice release, but it is an interesting story, after all. I’m going to send you the finished version tomorrow evening.” She winked.

Callie’s expression turned into a full smile, before she shook Billie’s hand as well, thanked her, and led her out the door.

Tris sat back down with a deep sigh, just short of burying her face in her hands before she remembered that that might ruin the make-up and hair other people had worked very hard on for about two hours this morning, and instead contented herself with leaning back, stretching out her legs and giving another abysmally deep sigh.

“I’m usually looking forward to lunch. Today…not so much.”

Callie didn’t react. Looking over, Tris saw that she had gone back to the couch, sat down and immersed herself in between her notebook and her smartphone. Tris threw a glance at her watch.

_11.32 a.m._

Her lunch date with Jim at the hotel restaurant was scheduled for 12.30 p.m. She had officially entered her last hour of reprieve. And she couldn’t quite decide what was worse: Waiting in this room for meeting Jim with nothing to do in the meantime, or actually meeting Jim.

Well, she’d probably know by 12.30, the latest.

Tris stared at the painted trees at the opposite wall, feeling herself grow bored, before she remembered that this was the Presidential Suite, and there was an honest to God grand piano at the back of the room. With a few strides she moved over to it and sat down on the chair, opening it up and stroking the keys. “Hello, beautiful,” she whispered.

The first piece that crossed her thoughts was _Nothing On My Mind,_ so she played and sang it, following it up with _Time To Leave_ and _When We Fall_. She had to rummage around in her brain for a bit before she came up with the fitting chords for _Sign of the Times_ , since she had never played it on piano before, but when she’d gotten the hang of it, it went pretty smoothly.

She was so distracted she hadn’t even realised that Callie had answered the door in the meantime, until a draught of wind carried the low rumbling of two people talking to each other towards her. Tris stopped playing and got up, interested in who Callie was speaking to, before the question was answered for her, when her manager rounded the corner, a familiar figure in tow.

“Harry? What the hell are you doing here?”

“Hi, Beatrice.” He grinned at her, and Tris had to stop herself from running towards him and throwing herself into his arms like a child. Instead she walked towards him with measured steps and gave him a long hug. It was ridiculous how much she’d missed him since yesterday, when he’d left her flat at about 4 p.m. after Callie had called and ordered Tris in for a strategic talk about her interview the next day and a first tallying up of online responses that hadn’t been as bad as feared, but not as good as hoped, either. Feeling his hands on her back and his curls on the side of her face again after nearly 24 hours was like having some sort of warm, scented, special protection-cloak against all evils of this world being spread out over her body.

Eventually she let go of him, for Callie’s sake.

“Well, I’m wandering through New York, and as it happens I stumble across this very nice hotel. As soon as I am in the lobby my Spidey-senses tell me that someone is playing my song in the Presidential Suite. So, I’m thinking, why not pay them a visit.”

“Your Spidey-senses must be very good.”

“They are nothing short of extraordinary.”

Callie rolled her eyes at them, but she was smiling, and Tris had the feeling that her manager had a pretty good idea about what was going on here. Her next words did nothing to invalidate Tris’ theory: “I’m gonna go now, have something strong and long at the bar and leave you to it. Don’t be late, Tris. You have half an hour left. Keep an eye on the clock.” She grabbed her notebook, her smartphone and her laptop and rushed out the door with a last, small smile in their direction.

As soon as she was gone Harry put a hand to the side of Tris’ face and made her look him in the eye.

“How are you doing?”

“Fine. All things considered. What are you _really_ doing here?”

“I wanted to see you. And make sure you’re okay.”

Tris took a deep breath. “I am. I suppose. Never wanted to see that idiot again in my life, but…well, it is as it is. There’s only one way to deal: Clench my teeth and get it over with.”

Harry’s eyes were soft. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“You just being here right now is pretty damn great, actually. And maybe, consider taking me out for dinner, later? Then I’d have something to look forward to after this train wreck of a lunch date. I’ll invite you.”

Harry pulled her into another hug. “Dinner sounds awesome. And free dinner even more so. Can I choose the location? I’m thinking champagne and caviar and golden spoons.”

That made Tris laugh.

“You were singing before. I was in front of the door and didn’t go in, so you wouldn’t stop,” Harry said into her hair, more seriously.

Tris pressed a kiss to one of the printed flowers on the shoulder of his shirt, not caring that she might leave lipstick traces. “Just passing the time. And trying to calm my nerves. Music usually helps with that.”

“You wanna go back to playing?”

“Yeah, why not.”

They went over to the piano and Harry put his hands on her shoulders as Tris sat down. She thought about what she wanted to play for a moment or two, before she just decided to roll with what had come to mind first.

_So unimpressed but so in awe_

_Such a saint but such a whore_

“So self aware, so full of shit,” Harry joined in, and Tris wondered if there was a song on this planet that he didn’t know the lyrics to.

The longer she played, the more she realised how well the song fit with her current mood; and when it came to the refrain the rage that had started boiling in her gut at some point broke through with the words.

_THEY’RE SELLING RAZOR BLADES AND MIRRORS IN THE STREET_

Harry matched her fortissimo vocals with his own, his presence and warmth in her back a reminder of everything good in this world as they both belted out the vocals, only toning them down a little for the last few lines.

_I come undone._

_I come undone._

“Met him once,” Harry said, after the song finished. “He’s a cool guy. A little messed up, but cool.”

“Aren’t we all a little messed up?”

“Yeah, that’s what people say about artists.”

Tris let her head fall back against Harry’s chest. “Maybe we’re not messed up more than other people. It’s only that we put it out there. Let them take a look at the mess when they hear our music.”

“That’s a little pathological, isn’t it?” Harry gave back. “Why would we do that to ourselves?”

“Because the alternative is not doing it.”

Harry’s fingers touched her left hand, still resting on the keys, and started stroking her knuckles. He was wearing his rings again, but the nail polish was gone. Tris could make out some pink leftovers on the edges of his nails, though.

“That’s not an alternative at all,” he retorted.

Tris sighed. “No, it isn’t. And I keep telling myself that there’s always something else, too, besides the messy, awful, confused stuff.”

Her hands found the keys on their own, playing only the first few notes of the chorus, but Harry immediately recognised the song.

“ _A lot of love an affection_ ,” he said, quietly, and Tris smiled up at him. “It’s not all bad,” she said.

“No. No, it’s not.” He smiled back at her. “Sing it with me?”

She nodded.

And they sang.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For reference, songs quoted in this chapter include:
> 
> "Come Undone", and
> 
> "Angels" (both by Robbie Williams - a line from the latter also forms the title of this chapter)
> 
> They turned out to be a great soundtrack for writing, so I had no choice...


	9. A Small Sacrifice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so, so, SO terribly sorry for the delay. I've had exams coming up, and some personal stuff to take care of, and this story just fell off the radar for a while. But I'm back now, hoping to upload a few more chapters over the next week and driving this thing forward with march tempo :) Thank you all for reading. It means a lot to me.

When Tris climbed the stairs to the rooftop terrace of the hotel it was 12.46, going by her phone display. She had tried to convince herself on the way up that being deliberately late was an act of rebellion against Jim, meant to show him that she would not adhere to the rules of his little revenge plot, but the closer she’d come to her destination, the less she had actually believed it. Part of her knew the truth all too well: She had delayed this meeting as long as possible, because she was scared.

Harry had left her room ten minutes before the 12.30 date in order to give her some time for last preparations, and she had hated him a little for having kept such a keen eye on the clock; but still, him not staying hadn’t stopped her from fiddling with her hair in the bathroom for ten minutes, flipping through catalogues for five and scrolling through some random Wikipedia pages on her phone for eight, before, finally, her determination had gotten the better of her and she had left the suite for good.

The rooftop was a beautiful place, drenched in the bright New York summer sun, reflected and enhanced in the glassy facades of the nearby skyscrapers. It was furnished with comfortable chairs and tables in modern grey, brown and green, and well-attended by expensively-clothed hotel guests and downtowners immersed in talks with their clearly very important business partners.

“How can I help you, madam?” A brown-haired, lanky waiter had come up to her and bowed his head.

“Ah – I have an appointment with my mana- I think I just found her. Thank you.”

Tris nodded at the waiter and made her way over, even though it hadn’t been Callie that had caught her eye. No, it had been the frosted, blond tips of hair that seemed to have gotten stuck in the 2000s and the accompanying brown, worn-down leather jacket belonging to the man that sat opposite Callie at a table in the corner. Tris would have recognised him anywhere, even in a place that didn’t make him stand out quite as much as this one. Walking over she felt her knees go weaker with every step. But it was too late now, too late to turn back, and to her misfortune, Callie was the one sitting with her back to the room, which meant that Jim would spot Tris before her manager had the chance to. She tried to put a little more ice in her gaze during those last seconds, forcing herself to breathe regularly, before…

“Tris! How lovely to finally see you! I already thought you might not make it.” Jim’s voice was mellifluous and his smile big, as he stood, stretching his arms out towards her, but his eyes betrayed him. Tris could spot a carefully guarded portion of disdain amidst the blue. She put a stony smile on her face and extended her right hand.

“Hello, Jim.”

He shook it, still smiling, and she really, really didn’t like the cheerfulness in his expression that took up all the areas of his face contempt didn’t have access to. He still looked exactly the same as two years ago: The same hair, the same handsome features, the same staggeringly blue eyes. Tris felt a slight nausea crawl up in her stomach and quickly sat down at the third side of the small table before her face could give anything away. Callie shot her a look, ranging somewhere between annoyance and worry, but didn’t comment on her tardiness.

“Apologies. I was talking to a friend on the phone, completely forgot the time.”

“Well, you were never the punctual gal, were you? No offence” Jim retorted, the cut in his words unmistakeable. Callie gave a small, polite laugh, but Tris didn’t join in. Before she could say anything more, the waiter from before came up to her to hand her a menu.

“A glass of chardonnay, please.” She looked over at Jim and decided spontaneously that she wouldn’t be able to get down even a single bite of food in his presence. “Nothing to eat, thank you. I’m not hungry,” she added, handing the menu back.

Jim chuckled. “That’s the pop star life. Never being able to eat anything that’s any fun. Well, I’m not a pop star, so I’m going to take the Angus steak with the potatoes and a glass of the best red wine you have.”  
“Of course, Sir.”

It occurred to Tris, right then, that Jim was eating at her expense, and she realised how very much she didn’t like it.

“I’ll have a glass of Merlot and the Chicken Caesar Salad. No egg, please,” Callie finished. The waiter picked the residual menus up from the table, nodded politely and disappeared.

Jim took that as his cue to lean forward on his elbows and smile at Tris, a somewhat wistful look in his eyes. “How are you doing, love? How long has it been?”

Tris huffed. Somewhere inside her, during Jim’s order, her fear had contracted an edge of annoyance. She had agreed to talk to him, but he was way off, if he thought that meant she had agreed to play along with his games, too.

“First of all, don’t call me _love._ As a matter of fact, I’m doing fine, despite the – circumstances. And you know exactly how long it’s been, Jim. You wrote your sob story of an article about it, after all.”

Jim lifted his hands in a pacifying gesture. “Woah, woah. No need to get bitchy.”

“No need to get sexist.”

Tris felt a painful kick at the side of her leg under the table, courtesy of Callie, and clenched her jaw. The warning didn’t come unjustified: This conversation was about to deteriorate into a flat-out fight in the next few minutes, if it was to go on like this. Tris breathed in and out as softly as she could to calm her nerves. Callie was right. She needed to keep her cool and not get distracted by Jim’s little knocks at her, that he was making for the sole purpose of driving her up the wall. She had known from the beginning that this was the kind of attitude he would be showing up with, and she admonished herself for not being prepared.

“I want to be forward with you, Jim. What you did was despicable. You can tell the horrible truth all you want, but the important parts of your writing, the parts about my songs being actually yours, were lies. You want to ruin my image. I get it. Now, there’s a reason you’re here and I’d like to hear it. No need for unnecessary small talk.”

There was a glint in Jim’s eyes as he leaned back in his chair. “You’ve always been assertive, haven’t you? Beautiful business ensemble by the way, makes you look ready to take on the world, how much did you pay for it?”

“Mr Masters, Ms Callahan is right. We shouldn’t waste time. The reasons you gave for seeking contact with us were more than vague.”

Jim grinned. “Alright, Ms Donovan. I think the girl can speak for herself.” He tilted his head to the side. “Tris, I’m sorry. Really. For how it all went down. It didn’t have to go this way. But you made your bed and everybody who does so has to lie in it. I’ve been hurt and screwed over by you, and I think…well, I think the least I deserve is a little compensation for that.”

Tris’ nails were burrowing themselves slowly but surely into the skin on the palms of her hands under the table while he spoke, leaving angry, red, half-moon-shaped traces behind.

“So that’s what you want from me? Money? For what? You’ve already made your story public. There’s nothing for me to lose. Why on God’s earth should I pay you?”

Jim’s grin didn’t deteriorate. Instead, it grew. With a slow motion he pulled out a few folded pages from the inner pocket of his jacket and laid them down on the table, shoving them in Tris’ direction.

Since she didn’t show any inclination to pick them up, her eyes still fixed on Jim’s face, bile in her throat, Callie did it for her, unfolding the pages and swiftly scanning them.

“It’s a settlement,” she explained. “ _Mr Masters promises to not provoke any further public attention on the person of Ms Callahan, nor will he take his case to court, dropping all claims of creative property. As consideration Mr Masters will receive 50 % of the profits made through all creative material Ms Callahan has monetized up to 30 th of June 2018, starting 1st of July 2018. Any and all creative material Ms Callahan monetizes after that point in time is not subject of this settlement._”

Jim was still grinning. “I think it’s very fair. Anything you do in July and after is none of my business. But the stuff you’ve written up to now. All those songs you’ll still be making money off of in ten years? I want my share. It’s not too much. Really not. You’re already swimming in earnings. And the money I want a piece of you haven’t even earned yet. Small sacrifice.”

Tris laughed. The nauseous anxiety was still there, but anger was burning hot and wild in her gut, too, roaring louder than anything else. “You can’t be serious, Jim. I’m _not_ paying you money for your lies. This” She gestured towards the papers in Callie’s hands. “This is _ludicrous._ ”

“Your manager doesn’t seem to think so,” Jim retorted, calmly, and Tris looked over to Callie, who didn’t look appalled at all. Rather…thoughtful.

“No, you’re not-“

Callie cut her short. “Could we excuse ourselves for five minutes, Mr Masters?”

“Do what you like,” Jim gave back.

Without further ado Callie made her way over the terrace to the Ladies Bathroom, with Tris following her reluctantly. She was still angry at Jim, and now she felt herself getting angry at Callie, too. When they arrived in the – fortunately empty – lavatory, Tris barely waited for the door to close behind them, before turning to her manager.

Her voice was trembling. “You’re _not_ thinking about taking this deal, Callie. You’re not.”

Callie sighed, focusing her pale, shrewd eyes on Tris’. “Actually, I am, Tris. This settlement will bring us some direly needed peace. You won’t have to worry about Jim ever again. No articles, no interviews, no lawyers, he can’t even mention you during stage performances. And he’s right. The money that’s in there isn’t even earned yet. Also, nothing you’re going to do after the 30th of June will be subjected to the settlement. Which excludes your planned collaboration with Harry as well as any upcoming tours and albums. It _is_ a small sacrifice. For peace.”

“So you’re taking his side now? I thought you were _my_ manager.”

Callie groaned. “Are you serious, Tris?”

Tris walked up to her, her hands involuntarily balled to fists at her sides. She had to actively keep herself from shouting. “Yes, yes, I’m fucking serious, because this fucking” She pointed her finger in the approximate direction of Jim through two walls. “This fucking bastard is _lying_ about me. And signing his settlement means admitting guilt to a crime I haven’t committed. It means giving in. It means letting the tosser win. Just for, what, _peace?_ That’s insane!”

Callie’s eyes grew hard, a pair of silver needles piercing themselves into Tris’ skull across the lavatory. “Listen to me closely, Tris. As much as I admire your sense for principle and justice, this is not the right place, nor the right time for it. If you don’t sign that settlement, there will be consequences. This man will drag you to court. Mercilessly. He has nothing left to lose and everything left to win, and if he can’t have your money, he is going to destroy you, no matter how much it costs him. He will ruin the last scraps of your reputation, and you will lose, Tris, even if you win that trial. You will lose. And you will be over. Once and for all.”

With every word Callie spoke, the ugly truth of it all sank into Tris, washing her anger down her throat and leaving a hollow feeling behind. Callie was right. Of course she was. It wasn’t fair, but life wasn’t fair, and principles were nothing people adhered to any more, at least not in the business Tris was in.

Callie must have noticed the change in expression, because her gaze grew a little softer when she spoke again.

“We don’t have to do it now. We’re going to squeeze out time that we need anyway for the lawyers. They have to read the settlement and make sure it’s okay, check if there are any back doors Jim is trying to set up. You don’t have to say yes to him now, Tris, I wouldn’t even advise it, to be honest. We’ll keep him in limbo for a week, you can acquaint yourself with the thought, and then we’ll sign.”

Tris nodded, defeat in her lungs. “You’re right.”

Callie smiled at her. “And now we’ll see the rest of this through together, okay? Even the most terrible lunch date will come to an end.”

“Better hope so. For him. Before I push him off the roof.”

“Just keep your head. You’ve been doing good.” Callie gave her a last, encouraging look, before she walked out of the Ladies Room.

Tris followed right behind her. Some part of her wished she could feel angry again, instead of being filled with that empty, dreadful feeling of utter resignation. But she couldn’t. This was it. Right here, right now, Jim had gotten his revenge.


	10. Casablanca Without The Nazis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mentioned Outlander in this chapter, because I'm completely obsessed with it as of late. That's the only reason.  
> Also, there was a little water in my eyes writing this (that I didn't put there by means of a plastic bottle like a certain someone did once upon a carpool karaoke, by the way).
> 
> The title is a quote from "Men In Black". But it's so awfully fitting.

“- and Callie told him the lawyers would have to look it over, before any decisions were made. But, frankly, you should have seen his face. He knew. He knew I have no choice but to take what he’s giving me. I was so close to just grabbing my dinner knife and- well, let’s just say lunch wouldn’t have ended well for him, if I had.”

Harry took a long sip from his Bordeaux and shook his head. “Wanker.”

Tris sighed and sipped from her wine as well. She hadn’t actually planned on telling Harry about her awful lunch date over dinner, had hoped to avoid the topic altogether, because she hadn’t wanted to ruin their last evening, but after a little chit-chat about her Vogue interview, he had asked her about it. The better she got to know him, the more she realised how straightforward Harry was with uncomfortable issues like this one. He seemed to genuinely want to talk about everything that weighed on her, and Tris was glad to have him to confide in. Beside Callie he was the only person she trusted with her inner turmoil, who knew show biz, and understood the weight of the decision she had made.

“We’ll sign on June 30th,” Tris continued. “Well…Callie made it look like I was still in the decision-making process, but Jim didn’t really believe it, going by his shit-eating grin.” She leaned back in her tiny bistro chair and pulled a face when she realised that Jim’s expression was still stuck on her retina in photographic accuracy.

Altogether she was feeling a little bit better than this afternoon, mostly thanks to Harry who had taken her out to a small French restaurant in Soho, fancy enough to serve great food and good wines, but not hip enough to be a celebrity hot spot; something Tris was especially grateful for tonight. She wasn’t exactly in the mood for giving autographs and taking pictures.

“That sucks in a truly epic way,” Harry replied.

“It does. But, whatever. I can’t just…end my career like that. Destroy everything I’ve worked for. And it’s not like I’m selling my soul. At least according to Callie.”

Harry’s expression grew very attentive. “Do you feel like you’re selling your soul?”

“No.” Tris paused. “Yes. Kind of. I don’t know.” She tilted her wine chalice back and forth, sending red liquid licking up the glass in wet stripes. “It’s probably just my ego that’s suffering. And while some part of me feels like I absolutely deserve this payback and just need to get over it, some other part feels like punching Jim in the face several times and ripping his settlement to shreds before him while laughing maniacally.” She looked up again. “That second part of me is not very clever, by the way.”

Harry blinked at her. His voice was soft when he answered. “It might not be clever, but it’s not wrong, either. You don’t deserve this, Beatrice. Jim is a dick. Very clearly. Whatever you have done…this is not a proportionate retribution.”

“Maybe.”

Harry’s hand found her fingers, still curled around the stem of her wine glass and started caressing her knuckles. Tris smiled up at him.

“I’ll be okay, Harry. Don’t you worry about me. Worry about your tour.”

“Easier said than done.”

That sentence alone sent Tris’ heart fluttering in her throat, and she shoved her fingers closer to Harry’s on the table, until they were fully enveloped by his hand. It was warm and firm, and somehow Callie’s voice found its way into her head: _Find something to hold on to._ Maybe this was what she had meant. It felt like it.

“I’m already missing you,” Tris said, truthfully. She had no idea how she was going to deal with more terrible afternoons, if she didn’t have Harry to look forward to in the evenings. But that was not a responsibility she was about to put on his shoulders. It had been her obligation to get through this by herself from the very beginning, not anyone else’s to walk the mile with her. Certainly not Harry’s.

When she lifted her gaze she got caught up in his lopsided smile. It was still a shock to her sometimes how beautiful he was.

“You’ll miss me?” Harry asked, like it actually surprised him.

“Of course I’ll miss you. You’ve been – incredible. Really, I…I needed you and you were there. Sacrificing your holidays.”

“It wasn’t sacrificing.”

“Sure? Even though you didn’t make it to the MoMA?”

Harry chuckled. “You know my stance on that.” A phone vibrated under the table, and Harry sighed deeply. “That’s my reminder. Gotta be at the airport in an hour. Washington awaits.”

Tris let go of his hand reluctantly and nodded.

“Then we better get going.”

Harry looked genuinely taken aback for a moment. “We?”

“Of course I’ll accompany you to the airport. Give you a sensible send-off. Have your rom coms taught you nothing?”

That prompted him to laugh out loud. “Alright, alright. Let’s hail a cab then.”

Tris waved to the waiter. “Drink up, I’ll pay. And then let’s.”

 

 

***

  

“When you said you were _taking the plane_ I was fairly convinced that you were referring to a fucking _passenger plane._ Not to, you know, this.” Tris stretched her hand out to the sleek private plane on the small tarmac before them in an accusatory manner.

Harry ducked his head. “It’s more…comfortable?”  
“Of course it bloody well is. Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ, this is insane. Private travel. When I asked Callie about it, she told me I’d have to sell at least three more albums as well-received as my first one, before she’d even _think_ of hiring a plane.”

“Jesus H. Roosevelt?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never read _Outlander._ They even made a TV show out of it.”

“ _Outlander_?” Now Harry seemed completely out of his depth. Served him right, after the artillery barrage of surprised fish gasps he had elicited from Tris as they’d driven up to the plane, all the while a wide, self-satisfied grin on his face.

She decided to deliver him from obliviousness a few seconds later. “It’s a book series from the 90s. Well – I think she’s still publishing? Never mind. I’d describe it as one third _The Tudors_ , one third _Doctor Who_ , and one third straight-up romance novel. But, you know, the high quality stuff. It’s amazing. There’s a hot Scottish guy.”

Harry laughed. “You have interesting criteria for the series you choose to read. Or watch.”

“Shut up, Mr Notebook.”

He gave her a cheeky smile, and Tris realised for a moment how ridiculously movie-esque this whole scene was in and of itself: Harry in his all-black dinner ensemble, she herself in her high-end Cavalli jumpsuit, standing on the lit-up tarmac beside a plane ready to whisk him out of her arms and away to Washington.

“Thinking about it, we’re basically stuck in _Casablanca_ right now, though, aren’t we?” Tris added, stepping up to Harry and looping her arms around his neck. In many ways, this place was a lot better than a departure hall full of people. She could say proper goodbyes without having to worry about paparazzi or fans that didn’t agree with their intimacy. Fortunately, Jeff and the rest of Harry’s entourage had already boarded, so they didn’t have any audience whatsoever, but even if they were here, Tris wouldn’t exactly have been worried about them doing anything rash, as Harry pulled her in, his hands on her waist, and chuckled. “Just, you know, without the Nazis.”

“And without the never seeing each other again.”

“That, too.”

His face was very close to hers now, the green and grey of his eyes a washed-out canvas for a tangle of emotions Tris felt hard-pressed to distinguish from one another, even though it was nigh-on impossible to tell exactly what Harry was thinking at any given moment. Right now, though, she could at least tell that he hated goodbyes just as much as she did.

“July,” she said. “We’ll see each other in July.”

“And we’ll write.”

  
“Texts. And e-mails. And maybe make a few phone calls. Because you don’t even have WhatsApp,” Tris retorted. “That’s very _Casablanca,_ by the way _._ As in ‘not the 21st century’.”

“It’s texts and e-mails, Beatrice,” Harry gave back, one eyebrow pulled up.

“Right. Yeah. Shut up.”

To underline that notion she caught his mouth in a kiss; and something inside her started aching a little, when Harry deepened it, the taste and scent of him all around her, burning itself into her consciousness. Tris knew in that moment that it would hurt when she’d have to let go. Eventually, she did. And, yes, she had been right. It hurt. Harry remedied that fact for a few moments by pulling her into him once more, the length of his body flush against the length of hers, the curls of his hair sweeping across her cheek as she rested her head at his shoulder.

“We’ll make music together. Whatever happens in the meantime, Beatrice,” he said against the side of her neck, firmly, and Tris nodded.

“Promise?” he asked, as if he wanted to make sure that she was really with him. He wouldn't have needed to. She’d been with him from the moment he’d asked her the first time, in the hallway of her apartment, yesterday morning, half-dressed, post-nervous-breakdown. It seemed like an eternity ago.

“I promise, Harry.”

He pressed a last, soft kiss against the skin of her neck, and when he let go this time, completely let go, Tris realised that the slight hurt she’d felt before had been nothing against what she was feeling now.

“See you in July, Beatrice.”

“See you in July, Harry.”

And it was hard, very hard, in that moment, not to add another sentence to that phrase, a sentence containing a word too big for its four meagre letters – and certainly too big for this moment, too.

So Tris smiled and waved as Harry boarded the plane, a last look back, and didn’t say it.


	11. All I Had To Do

Jim actually had the nerve to wear a suit to their second meeting on June 30th, instead of his usual leather jacket, like he was going to a bloody wedding, when the three of them sat down together at the round table in the Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons Hotel, overlooking a bleak New York skyline. His blond hair was spiked up with gel and his face contorted into a pleased grimace, as Callie smiled her professional smile at him, like this whole ordeal wasn’t affecting her at all. Tris on the other hand took her eyes off him immediately and resumed her staring out of the window, to prevent herself from actually throwing up.

“Ms Callahan has made a decision,” Callie said, when she realised that Tris was not going to start their conversation. She paused, presumably for dramatic effect. “Even though she is still of the firm opinion that your demands are completely insolent from an ethical viewpoint, and justifiably so, she is willing to agree to your terms in order to avoid further juridical and public proceedings. Her lawyers have read over your settlement and deemed it appropriate. The only thing the both of you will have to do now is sign it and abide by it.”

That last part was clearly directed at Jim, who’d let himself fall back in his chair, a full-blown grin on his face. Tris’ urge to vomit grew even greater. Instead of resorting to such drastic physicality, though, she took the ballpoint pen Callie was holding out for her and set her eyes to the papers that were already laid out before her.

Jim chuckled. “It’s funny, isn’t it? There I was, thinking I’d never see you again, and now I’m not only seeing you two times in one week, but you’re also investing some of your money in me. It’s a good investment, though, don’t you think? Speaking of…” He paused, like he was pondering something. “I bet you invested in that Styles-guy, too, haven’t you? Not necessarily in the financial sense."

Tris could feel the muscles of her fingers clench around the pen. She forced herself to keep her eyes down, but her countenance was slipping with every word that left Jim’s mouth. It seemed that any residual inhibitions had left him and made space for whatever he’d wanted to throw at her to begin with, now that she was obviously caught with her back against the metaphorical wall – no sign of the modicum of reserve he had shown a week ago at lunch.

“You know, there’s videos of you of that concert on YouTube. Plenty of them, actually. Going down on his guitar? Subtle. How long did it take you til you had him, huh? Did you do it in the dressing room, right after? Did you suck his cock? Or did he – did you _allow_ him, in your unending benevolence, to go down on you?”

“Mr Masters,” Callie admonished him. “This is not the time, nor the place to-“

Jim snickered. “Oh, but I’m only telling the truth, Ms Donovan. I’ve read the interview he gave for the Washington Post a few days ago. He was praising you for your authenticity and your beautiful personality, Tris. Can you believe it? I know when a man has been dealt with by you. And you’ve dealt with Har-“

  
“That’s enough.”

Tris had put the pen to the side. She was looking straight at Jim now. Her fingers felt numb and cold, a counterpoint to the burning rage in her stomach.

“Spit your venom at me as much as you need to but don’t you _ever_ dare believe that you know what Harry is like, or what my feelings towards him are. Your envy is deluding you. All you think about are money and sex and fame, because those are the only things you can see. You used to be different, Jim. I remember your kindness. Your passionate speeches about love and respect. Your-“

  
A harsh, short laugh escaped Jim’s throat. “What, love and respect? _You’re_ lecturing _me_ on love and respect? How about the love and respect you should have shown to _us_? You didn’t even have the _fucking respect_ to tell us what was going on. Three days. Three bleedin’ days before you flew off and left us to rot, you finally showed your true fucking colours. And I’m not even gonna get started on that thing with Tommy-”

  
“Yeah, you better don’t get started on Tommy, because then I’d have to talk about Cathy and Eva and…oh there were so many, I don’t even remember their names.”

Tris had gotten up from the table, her hands balled to fists at her sides. She could feel tears, stupid, purposeless tears, slowly but surely climb up her throat. But she managed to hold them back, when she added, more softly: “I should have told you. I didn’t and I still regret it, to this day. I made a mistake, a huge, huge mistake, and I hurt you all, and I can never make it right again, and for that, I’m sorry.”

“Oh, stop fucking whining about it,” Jim snarled. He had gotten up as well, boiling with badly hidden anger, his eyes cold, sharp points of blue. “You made it, alright? You went to New York and you have your oh-so-great career and you fuck the hottest celebrity in town, but in the end, I know what you really are. What you always were. A greedy. Little. Whore.”

Tris snorted. “Maybe I am. But let me tell you something, Jim: This greedy little whore doesn’t have to worry about how she’s going to pay her rent next month. Unlike the mediocre guitarist she’s looking at.”

There was a long, long pause.

When Jim spoke again, his voice was dangerously calm. “The deal is off.”

That set Callie in motion, who got up from her chair as well. Something flickered through her face that Tris had never seen there: Slight panic. “Mr Masters, I would advise you to-“

  
“No,” Tris interrupted her. A sudden calmness had taken hold of her, eradicating the anger and sadness, despite Callie’s obvious distress. “He’s right. We’re going to court. If that means my career is over, then it’s over. But I’m not selling my soul, or any other part of me, to this bitter, pitiful excuse for a man.”

Jim laughed, loud and mirthless. “Guess I’m special, then. Since you’re selling it to everybody else.” He grabbed the papers off the table, crumpling them up in his fist. “We’ll see each other in court. Good day, Ms Donovan.”

Half a minute later he had made it through the room and out the door.

“What were you _thinking_?” Callie was up in Tris’ personal space as soon as the click of the lock marked Jim’s departure, hot fury on her face. “We talked about this, we knew he was going to be smug and offensive and inappropriate after that lunch date experience, but all you’d needed to do was ignore him for a few moments and _sign the fucking papers_!”

Tris shook her head. “No. All I needed to do was find my feet and stop being scared of him.”

“And what good will that do you?” The anger flowed out of Callie’s face in a matter of moments. She stepped back and sat down on her chair, hunching her shoulders in defeat. Tris had never felt the need to hug her manager before. Apparently there was a first time for everything.

“Listen, Callie. I am aware of what I just did to myself, believe me. But you know what I realised a minute ago? I would despise myself for not standing up to Jim. For the rest of my bloody life. And I can live with my career being dead. I can live with people hating me. What I can’t live with? Hating myself. I’ve made decisions I regretted in the past. I know what that feels like. But there is no decision that I would have regretted more than this one. I’ll go to court. I’ll stand my ground. And I’ll let him spew out all his awful, dirty little details about me, pay tens of thousands of dollars to my lawyers, and hundreds of thousands of dollars more to him if I lose. And I’ll walk out of there with people laughing and spitting at me. But I’ll also walk out of there with my self-respect and my dignity in one piece. I owe that to myself.” Tris paused and tried to level her voice as she added. “It’s been a pleasure working with you, Callie. Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.”

Callie frowned at her. “Are you firing me?”

Tris swallowed. “You can’t exactly keep me in your management any longer under these circumstances, can you?”

Callie got up from her chair in the blink of an eye, all resignation gone, replaced by a hefty comeback of anger. “Don’t you tell me what I can or can’t do, Beatrice Callahan! Unless you contractually divorce me, I’m not walking out on you, you silly girl. You silly, hot-headed, brave, incredible girl.”

And then Callie was _actually_ hugging her, long and heartfelt, and Tris nearly shed a few tears of emotion.

“I’m calling the lawyers,” Callie said, letting go. “And the things you just told me? I want you to write them down and tell them to your judge when the time comes. If this asshole wants a war with us? He’d better be ready for the big guns.”

Callie took her smartphone out and punched in the code with the determination other people reserved for firing a rocket launcher, before going off around the table, the phone at her ear, ready to blow them all to pieces.

Tris had never loved her more than in this moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since we really, really have some catching up to do, I decided to post this chapter back to back with the last one, so I can at least pretend this story didn't take a three-week-hiatus out of the blue...
> 
> Thank you, all of you, for staying with me on this one. You rock.


	12. Seattle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a tough one, because I feel obliged to put up a trigger warning for mentions of violence, death and mass panic at this point. 
> 
> I wasn't sure whether I should actually go through with what I had originally planned in this story; but I am still of the firm opinion that tough subjects need to be tackled in art as well as life. And since AO3 gives me the chance to do so, I'll take it. If you choose to leave this story now, you're free to go. Thank you for staying a while.
> 
> The rest of you: I know that was serious as hell right there, but I'm not letting you go into this unprepared.
> 
> I love you all, don't forget it. I just like to torture my characters. (And don't worry, it's not all gloom and doom here. Which might give you a little mood whiplash. Whoops.)

“No considerable changes since yesterday afternoon. My life is still boring.”

“Well, unlike me, you’re actually doing something.”

“Harry, you’re _touring._ You’re doing a _lot_! I’m just sitting on my butt, writing all day and getting fat on chocolate milkshakes.”

“But you’re _making_ something. Working on something. And you’d have to do a lot more than drink a few chocolate milkshakes to even get into the orbit of ‘fat’.”

“That’s not what the _Daily Mail_ told me this morning.”

“Screw the _Daily Mail.”_

“Harry, you always crave what you can’t have. I feel the same. I’m writing and all I want is to be on stage. And you’re touring, and all you want to do is write.”

She could hear his grin down the line when he said: “Then we’ll both be stuck craving to be on stage together in – I can’t believe I’m saying this – seven days.”

Tris smiled, inevitably. “I think these have been the longest two weeks of my life so far. Jesus H. Christ.”

“Oh, right, on that topic…”

“What, blasphemy? I mean, it’s been one of our favourites to begin with, so-”

“No. Not that. I finished the first season. _Outlander._ ”

“Really? Did you like it?”

“The finale was – phew. Poor Jamie. But I’m unable to stop watching. The bad guy – he’s not really dead, though, is he?”

“Spoilers…”

“Oh, come on now, Beatrice!”

“Nope. I’m not that easy.”

A small pause. A chuckle. “Oh yes, you are. Also, you’ve been lying about the Daily Mail. They called your curves _voluptuous and shapely. Even in her sportswear, Tris dressed to impress_. No mentions of ‘fat’ whatsoever.”

Tris huffed. “Did you honestly just google that article?”

“And what if?”

“You’re impossible, Harry.”

“I think the word you’re looking for is _incredible_.”

“Full of yourself much?”

Another chuckle. “You’re just jealous.”

“Of your ego being stroked instead of me? Potentially”, Tris retorted. She felt the smile that was still playing around her lips catch a slightly immodest edge.

“Where are you going with this, Ms Callahan?”

“That depends entirely on the availability of empty rooms in your direct vicinity.”

“Crap. I’m in the car.”

“Hm. Then we’ll leave it at that.”

  
Harry sighed. “Maybe for the better. My right hand has started cramping a little in the last few days.”

“Ditto.” Now it was Tris’ turn to sigh. “We should take it easy on the studio for a while, when you get back. Not start writing right away. Take some time off.”

“So you can show me New York?”

“Mmmmh, theoretically.”

“Theoretically?”

“Well, I don’t think we’ll see more than my apartment for quite a while. Practically speaking.”

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, I’m actually planning on not letting you leave my bed, before we’ve made up for lost time. Get myself reacquainted with that butterfly on your stomach. Extensively. And then move on to less butterfly-like parts of your body…”

“Beatrice, I’m still in the car.” It sounded almost pained.

“Sorry. My mind is taking all the wrong turns. Again. Can’t seem to stop myself.”

Harry’s voice settled into a more thoughtful tone. “You know, I might have a specialist for that problem. A real expert in the department. Super-good at analysing all of those issues and finding a solution for you. You might have actually heard of him.”

“Let me guess. His name is Sigmund Freud.”

A moment of silence. “You, my dear Beatrice, just ruined a perfectly good joke at your expense. Shame on you.”

“I’m sorry. It’s part of my condition.”

“Well, if that is so, you’re forgiven. Ah – oh, crap, we’re nearly there. Seattle. KeyArena. Here we go.”

“Then I won’t hold you up any longer. You need to get your hair done and squeeze into a pair of ridiculously tight trousers after all.”

  
“You forgot the make-up.”

  
“You don’t need make-up, honey, you’re beautiful just the way you are,” Tris purred.

“Taking the piss, huh? You’ll see where that gets you when I come back.”

  
“I’m betting on it. But then, I wasn’t taking the piss this time, for a change.”

“Alright, sorry, fuck, I really gotta go, people will run my car over on foot by sheer willpower, if I don’t. How do they find out when I arrive? I keep asking myself. They should share their information networking skills with the CIA, honestly _, they_ might make America great again.”

Tris laughed. “God save us from that ever happening. No one would be safe on this planet any more. Okay, I’ll stop talking now. We don’t want the car taking any more damage. Goodbye, Harry.”

“Bye, Beatrice. Sleep well, and dream of something nice. That butterfly may be a good starting point.”

She laughed. “You, too. And don’t forget to have fun up there.”

  
“Time of my life, love. Hear ya tomorrow.”

  
Then the busy-back tone sounded down the line and Tris hung up with a small sigh. Seven more days to go. That was nothing compared to the two weeks already behind her. It still seemed like an eternity.

“Good God, girl, you’re in too deep. You really are,” Tris murmured to herself. She felt like a pathetic, lovesick teenager, sitting in her flat on her piano, staring out over Central Park and wishing desperately for Harry to just walk through the door and shout _surprise_ at her. From an objective viewpoint it was quite ridiculous. But then, Harry made time every day to talk to her for at least half an hour on the phone, no matter how busy he was, and that was quite ridiculous, too, from an objective viewpoint.

Tris took a look at the half-finished bits and pieces of a song before her and shook her head. Her creativity had left her about two hours ago, and it was nearly 9 pm anyway. Time to call it a day.

She got up and followed her rumbling stomach into the kitchen, where she found the leftovers of the vegetarian Thai curry she’d made yesterday, next to a portion of rice. She mixed the two together, put the finished product in the microwave, and seized the time to pour herself a cup of green tea from the pot she’d made this afternoon. It was nearly cold by now, but tea was better than no tea, never mind its condition. Tris was an Englishwoman in that respect.

With her dinner and the tea in hand she finally walked over to her laptop and started scrolling through her e-mails while she ate.

Callie had forwarded her invitations to parties and social gatherings, and marked a few that she deemed important enough to think about making her attend; Tris’ Mum had sent her greetings from Salisbury and a few videos of their cats in the attachment which bettered Tris’ gloomy mood considerably for a while and reminded her to give her mother a call as soon as she could spare an afternoon; and Annabel, one of Tris’ old friends from school, had sent photos from the Maledives, where she was currently spending her holidays with her new boyfriend. Tris typed a few lines as an answer and sent them, just before a new e-mail fluttered in.

It was from Harry.

There was a photo attached, that she opened before reading the text, out of sheer curiosity. It was a very nice picture, in fact, of Harry’s bare chest and stomach in the mirror, with guest appearances of the swallows, the butterfly and the upper two thirds of the laurels over his hips.

 

_Subject: ;)_

_Sweet dreams. This is just to make sure your mind keeps taking wrong turns :)_

 

Tris nearly spilled her tea, before she managed to type a reply.

 

_Subject: Re: ;)_

_Harry, are you honestly sexting me via E-MAIL???? Not that I don’t appreciate the notion, but - seriously? You have a show to do in 2 hrs!!!! Aren’t there hair, cable and make-up people buzzing around you like bees???_

It took him about two minutes to answer.

 

_Subject: Re: Re: ;)_

_You misinterpret my ambitions to give you creative fodder as something as crude and immature as “sexting”. Outrageous! I’d never do that._

_(Make-up lady left for five minutes.)_

Tris couldn’t help the massive grin spreading over her face as she started typing again.

 

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: ;)_

_Well, thank you for the “creative fodder” Mr Styles; I’ll make sure to take my revenge later this evening (NOT via e-mail, though, check your texts, dear God). Now go back to work and don’t traumatise the make-up-lady._

_Love ya._

_(It’s still sexting. You’re just being pretentious.)_

She hadn’t read over it again, before she’d sent it, but she did, of course, read it again immediately  _after_ sending. That was when she actually saw what she’d written, and her insides shrank in on themselves.

“Fuck.”

 _Love ya._ Really? Really? She’d just told Harry _that_ in the midst of an e-mail conversation about _sexting_? Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.

Tris bit down on her knuckles and pondered sending another mail, to clear up that she hadn’t meant it quite like that – or, no, that would come across completely wrong. And it also had the disadvantage of being a lie. She’d wanted to say it. Now her subconscious had simply done the job for her. “Freud was right,” she grumbled, thinking back to her conversation with Harry on the phone.

_Bing._

Mail from Harry. Tris’ heart jumped into her throat as she opened it, like it hoped to escape from there.

 

_Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: ;)_

_Aye, aye, Captain. (Make-up is back, and they’ll make me put away my phone in two seconds, so I’m typing like a madman.)_

_Anyway._

_Love you, too._

Something inside her felt like bursting, when she read it, and read it again and again and again and again, until she finally started to believe it.  _Love you, too. Love. You. Too._

She went to bed, an hour later, with that e-mail still illuminating her phone screen on the night stand, an unprecedented lightness in her chest and a smile on her lips.

 

 

***

 

When she woke, the sun was already high in the sky. A sleepy glance over at the clock told her that she had overslept: It was close to 11 am already. Tris stretched her limbs and groaned. Her brain went online at a slow rate, sending her thoughts to rotate back clumsily to the night before, to her conversation with Harry on the phone, then to Harry’s e-mail. A grin settled on her face as she sat up. Love you, too, she thought, sudden, debilitating happiness bubbling up under her skin. Love you, too. What a lucky girl she was.

She contemplated showering right away, but her laziness won for the moment so she picked up her phone from the nightstand and started scrolling through Twitter first.

Within a minute she could tell that something was very, very wrong.

Trending tags were #PrayForSeattle, #NoMoreViolence and #HarryStylesInOurHearts, and an awful thought started scratching at the rims of Tris’ consciousness.

_No. Nonononono._

With flying fingers she opened Safari and typed four words into her Google search bar:

_Seattle Concert Harry Styles_

The first few results confirmed what she hadn’t wanted to believe, and Tris felt like the floor had been pulled out from under her, leaving her to fall into nothingness. Her hands were shaking as she read the headlines.

**Knife attack at Styles concert in Seattle**

**Five people gravely injured at concert in Seattle**

**Seattle attacker stabs concertgoers, then himself**

Tris tried to breathe, but she didn’t feel like the oxygen reached her brain. She clicked on the first article and scrolled through it, barely taking in the information.

_…concertgoers were injured during knife attack at Harry-Styles-concert in KeyArena, doctors speak about grave conditions…_

_…started stabbing people at random in front of the Arena right after the concert…_

_…attacker killed himself before police arrived…_

_…the singer himself has not made a statement yet…_

“Oh my God. Oh my God.”

Tris stopped reading and closed Google. She couldn’t do this right now.

She needed to call Harry.


	13. The Worst Day

The phone dialled, and dialled, and dialled, and Tris climbed out of bed and started restlessly walking up and down her room, biting her freshly manicured nails into ruins. She was just short of screaming when someone finally picked up.

Words stumbled out of her mouth before the person on the other end could even say their name. “Harry? Harry, I just read it in the news, are you okay? Please tell me you’re okay.”

“Beatrice.” Harry’s voice sounded normal, if a bit raw and tired, like he’d used it too much in the last few hours. Or too little.

A wave of relief rushed through Tris’ system. “Are you hurt?”

“No. I’m… I didn’t even see anything, it all happened after I was already off stage.“ He paused to take a breath. “It was horrible, someone came into my dressing room and told me... They couldn’t say how many were injured exactly, right away. First it was three. And then, suddenly, it was five.” He paused again, longer this time. “When Manchester happened last year, it was terrible. And now it’s happening again, and this time… this time it’s not someone else, it’s me. People at my concert. Why-“ His voice gave up on him for a moment. “Why would someone, _anyone,_ do this?”

Tris felt tears climb up her throat at a rapid speed, spilling over onto her cheeks only seconds later. “I don’t know. Nobody knows, Harry. The only thing I can tell you is that it’s not your fault. It’s just not, okay? Don’t ever think that it is. All you wanted to do was sing for them. You didn’t do this.”

“They wouldn’t have been there without me.” It sounded lost, and Tris pressed the phone closer to her ear, an empty substitute for actual body contact.

“Where are you staying?”

“What do you mean?”

  
“What hotel are you staying at?” she clarified.

“The Four Seasons.”

  
“I’m flying over. I’ll be there in the evening.”

“No, no, Beatrice, you don’t have to…” His objection sounded weak, like he didn’t really mean it, and Tris wiped the tears from her face with determination.

“I won’t sleep tonight knowing you’re sitting in that empty, terrible hotel room on your own with all those thoughts having their merry way with you at 2 a.m.. That’s just not happening, Harry. I’m coming over _now_.”

There was a long, long period of silence on the other end of the line.

“Thank you, Beatrice,” Harry finally said, and Tris could hear that he was crying. There was _nothing_ she wanted to do more than wrap her arms around him in that moment, but instead she said her goodbyes down the line and called Callie immediately after hanging up, while she marched over into her dressing room and started putting together travelling essentials.

“Hello, Tris.”

  
“I need to take the next flight to Seattle. Don’t ask me why, don’t bother telling me how much money it costs, just make sure that I’m at the Four Seasons by evening.”

There was a small pause, before Callie answered her.

When she did, her voice sounded unusually soft.

“I don’t have to ask, Tris.” Another pause, longer this time, accompanied by the sounds of keys being hit on a computer. “There’s a flight at 2 pm, if you get that, you’ll be at the hotel at about 7 pm local time, roughly calculating luggage and rush hour. Do I book a room for you as well?”

“No, that won’t be necessary. Only transport to and from the airport.”

“Alright. I’ll make sure someone picks you up in about an hour, I’ll text you the details and boarding pass on the way.”

“You’re an angel.”

  
Callie huffed into the telephone. “Oh, stop it.” She sighed. “ _He_ sure could use one of those right now, though. And you might just be the woman for the job.”

With that, she ended the call.

 

***

 

It was 7.41 pm in Seattle, when Tris finally reached the hotel.

She didn’t give her driver the time to open the door of the car for her, climbing out herself as soon as it had stopped at the entrance, and rushed through the automatic glass doors into the building.

“Good evening,” the receptionist behind the long, modern desk greeted her. She seemed a little confused by the disparity between Tris’ high-end Dolce & Gabbana dress and her hasty entrance, but immediately got herself under control, settling for a professional, friendly smile. “How may I help you?”  
“The name is Beatrice Callahan. Mr St- one of your guests is expecting me. He might have called in.”

The receptionist nodded and clicked around on her screen. “Yes, yes, your name is in my notes, Ms Callahan. Mr Edwards is the one expecting you this evening, is that correct?”

“Uh, yes, that’s the one.”

Tris saw her driver come up behind her, her suitcase in tow. She fished some cash from her handbag and gave it to him with a grateful nod, taking the case from his hands, while the receptionist called up to the room to announce her.

Twenty seconds later she put the phone down and smiled at Tris. “You’ll find the Presidential Suite on the 10th floor. There’s only one, you won’t miss it. You’re being expected. If there is anything else I can do for you, just call.”

“Thank you very much.”  
Tris turned on her heel and made her way over to the elevators. A seeming eternity later one of them finally opened its doors for her, taking her up to the 10th floor.

The door to the Presidential Suite was hard to miss, indeed, two-winged and exuding importance. Tris wanted to knock, but found it ajar, so she stepped in, pulling her trolley case with her, and left it next to the entrance with her handbag, closing the door behind her.

“Harry?”

“Beatrice.” He had been sitting on the couch with a view of the entrance, dressed black in black, jeans and an old t-shirt, his hair a bloody mess, and now he was getting up at lightning speed, storming towards her; a moment later she had her arms around him, finally, his warmth through her dress, alive and well, oh God, _alive and well._

Harry buried his face at her neck and they stayed like that for a while, wound tightly around each other like threads on a weaving loom. Tris was the first to let go, putting her hand to Harry’s temple and pushing his hair back as he gazed up at her. His eyes looked a little smaller and redder than usual, and the vibrancy and liveliness in his expression seemed to have left him for the moment. His arms remained firmly hooked around her back.

“Do you have any idea how relieved I am?” she said, her thumb stroking his cheekbone.

Harry bit his lip. “Two died in the hospital,” he gave back, glumly. “I’ve been calling in on them every few hours.”

“Of course you have.”

“The doctors hope that the other three will pull through, they’re pretty sure about it, actually.”

“That’s very good news. What are the police saying?”

“The guy who did it died on the scene. Still trying to figure out how it all comes together. Not sure they ever will, without his confession.”

He looked down to the floor. “I’ve cancelled the rest of my concerts. Jeff said I should think about doing a tribute show, like Ariana did in Manchester. To show them I won’t be beaten by violence. But, to be honest with you, I feel pretty damn beaten.”

Tris put a finger under his chin and lifted it up, so she could look him in the eye. “Then that’s exactly why you should do it. You’re scared now. We all are. Tribute concerts are not only for showing all the bad guys in the world that we’ll get up every time they beat us down, but also for showing ourselves and our fans that we can work through our fears of getting out on stage again and doing it all over. And for realising we’re not alone in that. You’re not alone, Harry. Far from it.”

She noticed the water collecting in the corners of his eyes, and gave him a smile. “You’re brilliant and gentle and caring and people look up to you, but you tend to forget that they’ll have your back, too, when things come to a head. They know you’re not Superman, and they don’t expect you to be. And, most importantly, they won’t give up on you. So don’t give up on them, either. Don’t give up on yourself.”

Half a second later she saw herself pulled into another hug, and now she could feel wetness seep through the neckline of her dress as Harry cried into her shoulder. She stroked his hair and wished she could make it better for him, somehow, but then she thought back to Friday morning, two weeks ago, after the concert night at Madison Square Garden, remembered the sheer impossibility to stop her own flood of tears and the gratefulness she had felt for Harry just _being_ there.

So she pulled him in a little tighter, and let him cry.

 

***

 

“I don’t even want to know what that receptionist is thinking,” Tris murmured into the nape of Harry’s neck.

After Harry had found the strength to let go of her, Tris had proposed a bath, that they had taken together, just leaning into each other, touching, and not talking an awful lot; and then they had put on their pyjamas and gone to bed, Tris behind Harry, blanketing his back, her arms around his middle. The sparse lights from the bay outside were the only source of illumination, painting the interior around them in ghostly blue.

“Why that?”

“Hm, don’t you think that dress makes me look a little like a high-class-prostitute? I’d be disappointed, if you said no, by the way.”

The first honest laugh she’d heard from Harry this evening bubbled out of his throat, and she could feel the contractions of his abdomen under her fingertips.

“I hope she doesn’t sell the story to the press,” he retorted. “Apropos of…how are _you_ doing? I haven’t asked. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise. There are really more important subjects to be tackled than _The Rise and Fall of Tris Callahan and the Tosser from Salisbury._ Anyway, the waves have calmed considerably, the press have moved on to other things, and more people than I dared hope believe that Jim’s story is a whole lot of bullshit, specifically after you gave that interview for the _Washington Post_. Well, that, and Billie’s take on the whole affair in _Time Magazine_ didn’t hurt, either. She was very good to me. Obviously, there will always be a few complete arseholes around the Internet, but that’s to be expected.”

“What about court?”

Tris sighed. “Still pending. Haven’t heard back from Jim yet, but I’m sure something official will flutter through my manager’s letter slot shortly. It might get…a little ugly for a few weeks. But that’s, you know, that’s also to be expected. Don’t worry about it. I’ll be fine.”

Harry turned around in her arms to face her. She couldn’t see his expression in the dark, but she was pretty sure he was frowning.

“There’s a lot I have to say to this guy, if I ever meet him.”

Tris snuggled closer and her hand found the back of Harry’s head. “Thank you, my knight in shining armour. But I think I’ve been put in perspective. With what went down yesterday night, all my problems are so infinitesimally small. There are things that matter way more than a few people writing mean articles about my court dates with my ex, or even my music career being history. Things like making a stand and not backing down. Like giving hope to people who need hope more than anything else. Like-“ She paused for a moment. “Like being by your side right now.”

She could feel Harry’s face move closer to hers, until their noses were nearly touching. “I have no idea how I’m lucky enough to have you here, but know that I’m eternally grateful.” Warm fingers touched the side of her face. “Maybe I’m asking too much, but – will you do the tribute concert with me?”

“I will,” she responded, without hesitation. “And you’re not asking too much.” A small smile formed on her lips. “Who else shall we invite?”

Tris sensed Harry’s answering smile a few centimetres away from her mouth. “My band mates wrote to me. All of them. Asked me if I needed anything. I thought – maybe we should do something together, re-hash old classics. Have each of them do their solo stuff as well. And then, well, I’m not sure.”

Tris gave a thoughtful grumbling sound. “I’ll call Callie tomorrow, if that’s okay by you. She usually has good ideas. But, ideally, I think we should mix it up between British and American artists… Speaking of _mixing_ , we could start by asking Little Mix, they had a close relationship to 1D from the beginning, by X-Factor-default. Then there’s Chris Martin, he loves you, he’s probably already waiting for you to call him for help.”

“I could ask Ed, too.”

“And I’ll call Ella. Um, Lorde, I mean. She won’t say no to me. And what about Taylor? She wouldn’t say no to you, either.”

“She wrote to me, too, actually. It would be a good idea to ask her. I just thought – you might have a problem with that.”

“Why would I? She’s a good singer.”

“She’s also my ex.”

Tris chuckled. “So? I just met my ex _twice_ and you didn’t complain. Also, hang on -” She blinked at Harry through the darkness, while her brain caught up with the implications. “Are we insinuating that we’re in some sort of relationship with each other? Because…exes do not exactly pose a problem for flings, as things go.”

“Oh. Well – I didn’t really think about...”

Harry paused.

“Do you want to?” he added, in the end, very quietly.

Tris’ smile grew, and some tears found their way into it as well. “More than anything else,” she said.

Harry kissed her for a long moment, while she tried to wrap her head around what was happening in this strange, strange night, and failed.

“I shouldn’t be allowed to be so happy on the worst day of my life. Of so many people’s lives,” he murmured, letting go of her, as if he’d suddenly remembered, and Tris shook her head, her fingers soft at Harry's cheek. “The happy parts don’t take away from the sad parts, Harry. Just like the sad parts can’t really make the happiness go to waste. Don't feel guilty about it.”

Harry said nothing for a while.

“We could ask Robbie, too,” he finally retorted. “Get a few more classics in there. And he did do it for Manchester, might do it for Seattle again.”

“How did you take that into your head now?”

“Just thought of one of his songs.” His fingers were moving, painting small patterns on her arm. “Maybe we should go to sleep.”

“We should,” Tris agreed.

Harry turned back on his side, into his original position, his back against Tris’ chest. She wound her arms around him once more, his hands holding onto hers over the lower part of his sternum.

“Don’t let go,” he whispered, so quietly that Tris nearly couldn’t make it out.

“Never,” she responded, a soft kiss to his shoulder. “Never. I promise.”


	14. Five Man Band

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And finally, the boys get their long-awaited appearance, too, and this is - officially - an honest-to-God 1D fic.  
> We can all go home now.
> 
> (Also, Tris and Harry have an official ship name now. I couldn't resist.)

The cab took a fast turn and Tris gave the Starbucks cups in the foot well a warning glance. They still stood safe in their cardboard holder, wobbling only a tiny bit; a fact she acknowledged with a satisfied little nod, before turning back to her phone screen.

 

 **eilee_nat:** Omg, rad, I’m so jealous of all of you who got tickets! #SeattleTribute

 **mathilda1307:** Bless you for taking part and supporting H. #SeattleStandsStrong

 **Obelisque_Azur:** She gonna perform another of her shitty, stolen songs?

 **Mary_May_Maria:** Fuck you @Obelisque_Azur, she never stole anything, and she is a literal ANGEL of music, she’s there to support Seattle and spread LOVE and HOPE. Maybe you should get off your computer and do the same! #TrisFTW #MyQueen

 **OberynOfDorne:** I want her to sit on my face.

 **Olivia2345:** WE HAVE A 1D REUNION. CONFIRMED. I’M NOT BREATHING. #SeattleStandsStrong #SeattleTribute #WHATISAIR

 **TrarryStylahan_xoxo:** Are you gonna sing w/ Harry again? I ship you guys so much.

 **Emilia_Tarullo:** @TrarryStylahan_xoxo Omg, yes.

 

A small smile started tugging at the corners of Tris’ mouth. She had posted the final list of artists ten minutes ago, and this was only a fraction of the resonance she’d gotten on her instagram so far. After eleven days of too little sleep, massive amounts of phone calls and e-mails, the involvement of two managers and their respective contacts, and the Presidential Suite of the Four Seasons Seattle turning into something akin to an air force base, going by the sheer number of people walking in and out of it every day, Harry and she had managed to mount a massive tribute concert by the name of _Seattle Stands Strong_ , scheduled for tomorrow, Friday, July 20th 2018.

Twelve artists of global fame would partake in this concert, including, but not limited to, LittleMix, Taylor Swift, Coldplay, Lorde, Ed Sheeran, Robbie Williams, Lana Del Rey and, of course, OneDirection, as well as all of the band members in solo appearances (apart from Zayn, who’d written a long, heartfelt mail, but couldn’t make it due to touring responsibilities).

Tris was tired, and worn out, and half of her wanted nothing more than the organisation havoc to end as soon as possible, but the rest of her felt incredibly, impossibly proud. Harry, Jeff, Callie and she had worked their respective arses off, and now something was coming of it; the just about 10.000 tickets had been ripped from their hands in a matter of minutes three days ago, without anyone even knowing who was going to sing, apart from Harry and Tris being confirmed participants at the time. It was pretty amazing.

“Ma’am, we’re there,” her cab driver announced. Tris put her phone away and hurried to pick the coffee cups and the brownies in the paper bag right next to them up, before paying her cabbie and climbing out of the car.

The glass doors of the hotel slid open before her, and Tris walked at a fast pace through the lobby – no need to attract more attention than necessary –, giving Monica, who was managing the desk today, a short smile. Around the corner, elevators, 10th floor; then the familiar two-winged door lay in front of her. Tris heard muffled singing voices from the inside, and her pulse started going a little faster. She was about to meet the people Harry had spent five whole years of his short life with; people who were near and dear to his heart; people Tris had never seen in person ever before. _No pressure_ , she thought to herself. _No pressure at all._

A determined swipe of her room key later she marched in. The singing came from the living room, and when Tris rounded the corner she saw Harry sitting with his back to her on the massive sofa, a mini-keyboard in front of him on the glass coffee table, next to messy stacks of paper and a few tins of cola light. Louis, Liam and Niall were grouped around him in concentration as he played a harmony on the keyboard and counted a bar out for them.

“One, two, three, four _–so don’t let it go, we can make some more, we can LIVE FOR-E-VER.”_

They sounded very good together, and if Tris had had two hands to spare, she would have applauded.

Louis spotted her first. “We have company,” he said, smiling in her direction.

“I bring coffee and doom to your diets,” Tris proclaimed, holding up the brownies and cups she was carrying. Niall was the first to jump up and take the bag off her hands, while Liam and Louis gave a soft, startled laugh. Harry got up, too, only a second later, and Tris handed him the cups. He put them on the table one by one and shoved them towards their targets, as Tris named them.

“These are for Liam and Louis, milk but no sugar. This one is for Niall, milk and splenda; this is for you, Harry, black, no sugar. And this is mine. Chai with almond milk.” Tris smiled at the bewildered expressions on their faces. “I like to bribe people with their favourite coffee. And the bag contains brownies, one for each of you. I figured 4:30 pm might be a good time for a break. Oh, I’m Tris, by the way.”

There was a small pause.

“So nice to meet you,” Niall finally said, put his cup on the table and gave her a long, heartfelt hug. Liam and Louis followed suit, and then Harry came up, kissed her on the cheek and pulled her down on the sofa next to him, his arm warm around her waist. The other boys sat back down, as well, and after a long draught of his coffee Liam chuckled softly.

“Did you tell her about our coffee drinking habits, H?”

Harry grinned. “No. She’s psychic.”

“I texted him and asked,” Tris rectified. “But, honestly, how come you never introduced him to WhatsApp? You had all the time in the world, and he’s still stuck in 2009!”

“Oh, Tris, we tried. Believe me. But he’s a hopeless case,” Niall gave back, aiming for Harry’s ribs with his elbow.

“I just don’t like it. Never did,” Harry replied, dodging him effortlessly.

“It’s okay, we love you despite that glaring fatal flaw.” That had come from Louis, and Tris laughed.

“Harry told us a lot about you,” Liam said, a curious undertone in his voice. “Great to finally meet you in person.”

Tris looked at Harry, her eyebrows rising up. “What _exactly_ have you told them about me, Harry?”

His fingers curled into her side and his eyes gleamed. “Only the truth.”

“Great. Then I’m truly fucked.”

That prompted the whole table to break out into a salvo of laughter.

“Don’t worry, Tris, he only spoke well of you,” Niall assured her. “I’ve seen the concert footage from New York, a month ago. You were fantastic. Shame I was promotin’ at the time and couldn’t be there to watch.”

“Your voices go really good together,” Louis added. “They’re combining very well on stage. Interlacing. Like-um. Oh, I’m shit with metaphors.”

Tris smiled. “Thank you. I’d say the same thing about yours, though. I haven’t heard a lot, but from what I did…you boys are damn good together. No wonder you’re the biggest boy band since _Take That_. Apropos of…People are flipping out all over the Internet about your stage-reunion. It feels like witnessing the fucking _Beatles_ getting back together.”

“Yeah, it’s totally crazy. Has always been,” Niall said with a shake of his head. “No idea where that came from, it was just _there_ one day. The fans, the passion, the slight insanity of it all.” He paused. “I wonder, if people will still give a fig about us in 20 years.”

Tris put him off. “Oh, don’t worry, you’ll be like the _Stones_ one day. Still good and impossible to kill. I volunteer as groupie, by the way, once I run out of songs myself.”

“Sounds brilliant, though unlikely. Your creativity is bottomless,” Harry said. “But we could still buy one of those old buses and tour the USA together. Who’s in?”

Five hands went up.

“It’s decided, then,” Harry stated, a grin on his face.

They sat for a while, just like that, drinking coffee, eating brownies, talking about the future in bright colours, and Tris realised after a while that she was comfortable in Niall’s, Louis’ and Liam’s company. She’d had the small but nagging apprehension that she’d feel like a foreign body among these boys, who’d spent so much of their youth together, like an intruder, who shouldn’t be there at all, but it wasn’t so. As much as they talked about the good old times of _One Direction_ they also asked her about her life and her plans, dragged the conversation back to her when it deteriorated towards inside jokes and fan stories too much.

When Tris looked at her phone again it was nearly six, and she jumped up from the couch as if stung by an adder.

“ _Shit_ , I need to go meet Callie, she’s waiting at the bar for me in ten minutes.”

Harry frowned. “Last preparations?”  
Tris shook her head. “Lawyers.”

His frown deepened and she could see that he wanted to ask her about it right away, but she cut him short with a wave of her hand. “We’ll talk after tomorrow. It’s not important right now. I just need to sort a few formalities out. Nothing world-changing yet.”

Harry took her hand and pressed a small kiss to the back of it. “Give Callie my regards,” he said, softly.  
She fleetingly stroked his cheek with her thumb. “Will do.” Turning back to the others, she realised they’d all gotten up to say their goodbyes. “Thank you for having me. It’s been really nice. We’ll see each other tomorrow.”

“Thank you for having _us_. And for coffee,” Louis said, hugging her.

“And ruining our diets,” Liam added with a nod to the now-empty brownie bag on the table, before giving her a bear hug of epic proportions.

“I’m coming with, my phone is dying, need to grab my power bank from my room,” Niall stated.

Tris waved the others goodbye, gave Harry a last, private smile, and then followed Niall out the door. The moment the wings fell shut behind them, Niall put a hand on her arm.

“Can I ask you something?” He was looking at her, something very honest in his expression, and Tris stopped in her tracks, when she realised that the excuse of grabbing his power bank had been merely a clever strategy to catch her alone. Whatever he wanted to talk to her about, it was important enough to him to have planned it beforehand.

“Sure, Niall.”

He looked her straight in the eye. “I just wanted to know – how’s he holdin’ up? After…well. That.”

 _Oh._ Tris glanced down at her shoes for a moment, before returning his look. “It’s getting better. He’s still distraught, but…organising the tribute concert might have been good for him. It was giving him something to do, and he needed that. To distract him from feeling guilty. Even though he _isn’t_ guilty at all, but try telling him that.”

Niall’s brows folded in on themselves, giving his soft, boyish features a very grave touch. “I was in Manchester, for the _One Love_ concert last year. Talked to Ari there. She was completely out of it. Lost. I felt so sorry for her, I remember. When I heard about Seattle, the first thing that popped into my mind was Harry being in that exact same situation. Blamin’ himself for everything.”

Tris put a hand on his upper arm for a moment, gently. “Thank you for doing this with him. It means a lot to him. Really. Writing to him, offering him help, doing the concert. All of it. He’s so lucky to have you as friends.”

“Ah, that’s nothing. We should have done a lot more than write. We were a team for so long, when one of us was down, he could always bank on the others being just around the bend. But suddenly we’re in different corners of the earth, Liam and Louis with their children, me with my promos; and Harry…well. On the one, terrible weekend when he’d needed us the most, we couldn’t be there for him. Not really.” A second passed, and Tris wanted to say something reassuring, because it wasn’t their fault, it really wasn’t; but Niall’s hand found its way to her shoulder just then, warm and firm through her dress, and she let him continue. “You were there for him that night. You did what we couldn’t do. Thank you. For looking after him.”

Tris swallowed, a little overwhelmed all of a sudden. “Nothing to thank me for, Niall. He would have done the same for me. He _has_ done the same for me.”

Niall shook his head. “Still not a matter of course.” He let go of her and smiled. “In five years I’ve never seen him look at anybody like he’s looking at you. He’s lighting up around you, you know?”

A small shudder ran down Tris’ back at his words. “Don’t think I deserve it. I’m not exactly a saint. What you’re reading about me in the press? Most of it is true, actually.”

“Doesn’t matter. Do you love him?”

“We’ve been with each other for a month, Niall.”

The expression in his eyes didn’t let her look away. “Do you love him, Tris?”

  
Tris took a deep breath, before giving him the truth.

“More than I’ve ever loved anybody else.”

Niall’s smile grew bigger. “Then you deserve him. Now go meet your manager. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He hugged her, short but sweet, and hurried off to his room, leaving her slightly shell-shocked to her own devices in the middle of the corridor.


	15. Meet The Stars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Robbie Williams happened.  
> It's not my fault, though; he just barged in and didn't leave.  
> Sorry.

„Aahhh, you look so good, girl! I _love_ the lace. And the corset, oh my God, Tris, is that vintage? No, no, the skirt looks really designer-ish, but as a whole it's just-,” Perrie made a complicated hand movement meant to encapsulate what words could seemingly not express.

“Thank you, Perrie. You look fabulous yourself. Really, you’re downright _glowing_.”

“That’s just the highlighter,” Jade quipped through the marginally open dressing room door behind them.

“Rude!” Perrie shouted, before turning back to Tris and taking her hands into her own, squeezing them ever so slightly. “It must have been crazy organising this.”

Tris sighed. “A little bit. But now everything’s starting to fall into place, nearly everyone is in attendance, and in only two short hours we’re on. Final sprint. And thank you, truly, for being here. It means the world.”

“Sure thing, girl. For you and Harry? Any time, honestly. By the way – are the rumours true? You two are dating?”

Tris sighed again, deeper this time. “Yeah, we are. But keep it close to your chest.”

“Too late for that.” That was Jade again, through the door. “Press are all over it. You already have an official portmanteau couple name, so you better get used to the attention.”

“Shut it, Jade, you’re not helping!” The sudden cameo appearance of Perrie’s Northern accent prompted Tris to giggle a little. “It’s fine. She’s right, you know.”

“Hey,” a dark, female voice sounded from Tris’ left. She looked to where it had come from, letting go of Perrie’s hands. Ella was walking up to them, her long, dark, flowing locks rivalled only by the colour of her deep purple lipstick in sheer gorgeousness. “Apparently somebody landed outside with a helicopter ten minutes ago,” she said. “Must be one of ours.”

“Gee, who does that anymore?” Perrie asked, looking from Tris to Ella and back, more than just a little bewildered.

Ella shrugged. “Not the faintest. It’s quite cool, though.”

“Actually, I have a pretty good idea who that might be,” Tris replied. A pool of excitement started collecting in her guts at the prospect of her assumption being correct. “Sorry, gotta dash and see if my conjecture is right, say hello, if it is. See you in a bit!”

“See ya, babe! Careful with that train on your dress!” Perrie called after her, as Tris marched towards the stairs with long strides. She looked over her shoulder with a smile and lifted her skirts demonstratively so they were no longer a tripping hazard on the floor, which earned her an enthusiastic thumbs-up from both Perrie and Ella, before she climbed the stairs and lost sight of them.

Upstairs, close to the artists’ entrance, she heard, then saw, a group of people talking. Even from afar Tris could make out Niall’s distinctively blond shock of hair; and right next to him she spotted Callie, impeccable posture, her clipboard in hand. Beside them, just like Tris had expected, stood their new entrant. Her excitement grew, and she had to hold herself at a constant pace. Running in this outfit would not end well for her or her dress.

“Mr Williams,” she said, when she’d come close enough to be heard. Three heads turned towards her, and Tris couldn’t help but grin. “It’s an honour to have you here. I heard you took the aerial route from L.A.?”

Robbie Williams was looking at her with amusement in his sparkling blue eyes, when she came to stand before him. “Aerial route. Fancy way of putting it. You must be the famous Tris Callahan. I’ve read a lot about you in the press lately.”

Tris swallowed nervously, her hand stretched out towards him, her grin deteriorating a little, but then he broke out into laughter, and a second later she saw herself wrapped up in a tight hug. She reciprocated out of surprise at first; but relief and gratitude quickly replaced that emotion, when Tris’ brain caught up with Robbie’s dry sense of humour.

He let go of her, and she noted, belatedly, that he smelled very good.

“First of all, let’s stick to first names. I’m Robbie. And I’m the last person to believe anything that’s in the press about anyone. Don’t worry your beautiful head off. You’re good.”

Tris breathed out audibly. “And there I already saw myself publicly shunned by one of my idols. Phew. First names are perfectly fine for me, by the way.”

Robbie laughed. “Wouldn’t think of shunning you in my dreams. Especially not when you’re wearing _that_ dress.” He winked and Tris winked back, automatically, before she could stop herself. It was crazy: At 44, with grey hair and a slight double chin, dressed in beige chinos and a Dad-cardigan, this man still exuded more sex appeal than most 25-year-old strippers. Meeting him in person, Tris completely understood the urge to throw oneself at him without further thought or reason.

“Have you seen Harry?”, Niall asked, and Tris furrowed her brows. She hadn’t, in a while, actually.

“Must be around here somewhere… I think I spotted him talking to Taylor before, but that must have been nearly an hour ago. I’ll see if I can find him and tell him you’re here, Robbie. He’ll want to say hello.”

“Is my dressing room on the way? If it is, I’ll come right with you and get comfy.”

Tris threw Niall a sidelong glance. She really hoped she hadn’t interrupted his Talk With Robbie Williams, capital letters. But he seemed content enough with the situation. “I’ll go see where Liam and Louis are. If I run into Harry, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him,” he said, flashing her a small smile.

“Thanks, Niall.” With that, he was off.

“Same goes for me; I still need to check on a few people. It’s dressing room 3.03. Don’t overlook time, Tris. Robbie.”

Then Callie was gone, too.

“Wow. She’s…” Robbie didn’t end his sentence immediately.

“Organised?” Tris offered.

“Demanding.”

“That, too.”

“The perfect manager,” Robbie concluded with a sly grin, and Tris gave him a little smile in return as she led the way. Part of her was convinced she’d been thrown into the wrong universe a few minutes ago (Robbie Williams following her around backstage? What?), but the last ten days had had their fair share of surreal moments in them, too, so she was at least somewhat used to it by now.

“This is exciting. I’ve never performed here,” Robbie said happily.

Tris gave him an incredulous look. “Really???”

“You forget that I’m not big in America, sweetheart. I’m all but an old British tosser over here, performing for shits and giggles.”

“Americans don’t seem to know what they’re missing.”

“Thank you for saving my ego from drowning, right there. I knew I could count on you.”

Tris laughed. “You’re welcome.”

They arrived at the door to 3.03 just then, and she opened it to reveal a well-lit dressing room with water, snacks and the set list ready on the table. “Ta-da. Is your crew on the way?”

“They should be here in ten or so. Didn’t take the aerial route,” he retorted.

“Oh, the perks of being an international superstar.” Tris tilted her head. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

“Hang on. Just a minute,” Robbie said, to Tris’ surprise.

“Uh, sure.” She stepped in, and he closed the door behind her. “What is it?”

His expression turned a little more serious. “I wasn’t lying when I said I’d read about you in the press. That ex of yours. He’s a real wanker, isn’t he?”

The way he pronounced _wanker_ reminded Tris so much of Harry that it startled her for a moment. A random voice in her head saw it fit to supply her with the fact that Harry and Robbie had grown up not even 20 miles apart from each other, which was, honestly, weird in and of itself.

“He is a wanker,” she retorted, snapping out of her reflections. “Has always been. But there have been wankers from the beginning, and there will be wankers until the end of time. Can’t do a thing about it, if you’re unfortunate enough to meet them. Or date them.”

Robbie gave her a small, unhappy smile. “He’s dragging you to court, isn’t he?”

“How do you-”

“Know? Wild guess. We just settled that he’s a wanker. And that’s exactly what a wanker would do.”

Tris sighed deeply. “Wild guess or not, you’re right. We’re going to court. My lawyers presented me with the invitation yesterday, and I’m trying to come to terms with burying my career in America. This concert is a swan song, of sorts.”

To Tris’ complete and utter bafflement, Robbie erupted in laughter.

“What’s so funny?” she managed.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s just – I don’t know shit about American audiences, but… But I know a thing or two about proving people wrong.” His expression went back to earnestness, as he continued. “I remember it vividly. People telling me my career was done and dusted after leaving my band. My ex-manager, my ex-bandmates, the press, the public, even my _parents_ , God bless them. They weren’t wrong about the odds, not at all. I was a junkie, an alcoholic, I had competition way better suited for the big stages than me. But you know what? I didn’t give a flying fuck about odds. I wanted to be on stage, so I kept writing, kept singing, kept performing, stubborn like a bloody ox. I would have died trying. I _might_ have died trying. After three failed singles, the whole world on my case, my self respect in the gutter, _bam._ A hit. And then another one. And another one. I’m not saying producing hits solved any of my problems at the time, the drugs or the alcohol or the fucking depression, but it sure as hell proved that I was right, and the others were wrong. The career I have now? It happened, because I didn’t fucking quit, despite everyone and their mother telling me I shouldn’t even bother.”

Tris blinked at him, thunderstruck by his spirited monologue. “Well, of course you didn’t quit. You’re Robbie fucking Williams.”

Robbie’s hands grabbed upon her upper arms, pinning her eyes to his. The look in them had taken on a sharp, dazzling intensity. “And you’re Tris fucking Callahan. With that voice and those wits and those _tits_ there’s nothing you can’t do. No one can end your career for you. You’re the one, the _only_ one, to call it quits. Not the world, not the press, and certainly not some wanker from England who’s trying to piss on your parade. Don’t listen to any of them, not even to your manager. No matter how brilliant she is at her job, she’s a realist and that’s not what you need. What you need is what’s in here,” One of his tattooed fingers pointed through the air straight at her heart. “The thing that keeps you going, keeps you doing what you’re doing. Focus on that, and give the rest of the world a big middle finger. Fuck them all. And prove. Them. Wrong.” He punctuated those last three words with small stabs of his index finger towards her chest.

There was a moment of silence, and then Tris started smiling at him. “I’ll tell the people who told me to never meet my idols to fuck off right away.”

Robbie let go of her arm and returned the smile. “That’s the spirit. By the way,” He looked at her with considerable mischief in the corners of his eyes. “Me from ten years ago would ask you to make out with me just about now.”

“Me from one month ago would give you an enthusiastic _yes_ and pounce on you.”

Robbie’s smile turned a little lopsided – one more thing about him that reminded Tris strangely of Harry. “I have a wife and two kids, what’s your excuse?”

“Boyfriend.”  
“Of course. One month together, huh? Do I know him?”

Tris cleared her throat, and for some weird reason that must have given something away, because Robbie’s eyebrows rose. “Is it Harry?”

“You’re literally the second person to ask me that in the span of not even half an hour.”  
“Is it? Oh, come on, it is, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Yes, it is. Please don’t shout it from the rooftops.”

“No need to do that. The fans and the press are quicker with that sort of thing than you’d want to believe, without anyone hanging lanterns. By now everybody knows about my affair with Gary Barlow, despite my best efforts to keep it under wraps.”

“What a _Shame_ , Robbie, you should have tried harder.”  
Now it was his turn to laugh out loud. “Not bad at all.” He patted her shoulder. “I think you two are really fucking good together. And, by God, he’s a lucky guy.”

Tris blushed a little, and something came to her. “Speaking of –he hasn’t showed up yet. I was banking on Niall to find him, but I might have to do that myself after all.” She sighed and opened the door. “I’ll send him over to say hello once I do.”

Robbie nodded. “Go forth and conquer, Ms Callahan. Show ‘em how it’s done.”

“Will do,” she said. The two words seemed to grow more momentous in the space between them, turning into something like a promise, and maybe Robbie realised it, because the smile on his face became a tad bigger, before he closed the door.

Tris stood for a moment, looking at the wall opposite, dwelling on their conversation, the corners of her mouth curved upwards.

Then she turned and took off down the corridor to go find Harry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter might ask for a small explanatory attachment, due to obscure pop culture references:
> 
> Robbie's "former band" is Take That, founded in 1990, which he left, rather scandalously, in 1995, starting his solo career. People were convinced at the time - and for good reason - that he'd tank and his former bandmate, Gary Barlow, would embark on a stellar, worldwide climb into pop heaven. The exact opposite happened, not least thanks to Robbie's fourth, INSANELY successful single: "Angels".
> 
> "Shame" (which Tris references ironically) is a duet by Gary Barlow and Robbie Williams recorded in 2010, as a result of them finally hugging it out after a 15-year-long mutual animosity. The music video played the homoerotic subtext between them up to eleven, to every shipper's pure delight. Gary and Robbie are, of course, completely aware of this, mostly because they're the ones responsible for the ridiculous Brokeback-Mountain-ness of the whole ordeal. There's a Making Of out on Youtube, where they comment on the gay subtext in a sarcastic manner. It's fucking hysterical.
> 
> Little Mix, the girl band of X Factor fame and, arguably, female counterpart to 1D, consists of Perrie Edwards, Jesy Nelson, Jade Thirlwall and Leigh-Anne Pinnock. Only Perrie and Jade are featured in this chapter. I didn't mean to play favourites here, honestly, I love them all to bits.
> 
> Also, Lorde's real name is Ella. In case you didn't know. Heh.


	16. Everything Will Be Alright

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All lyrics in here were borrowed. Please don't sue me, Robbie/Harry/1D, I love you.
> 
> (I know, it's been a week, but this has 4000+ words and was a bitch to write.)

Tris nearly ran into Taylor Swift as she rounded the next corner, and physical harm to both of them could only be prevented by a rather ungraceful half-jump-half-stumble to the side, avoiding collision.

“Oh my God, we need to walk slower,” Taylor said, a startled laugh on her lips, one hand on her chest. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine! Are you? Gee, walking slower sounds like a great idea. But, rarely a bad thing without a good one: As it happens, you’re exactly the person I’ve been looking for.”

Taylor blinked at her, surprised. She looked fantastic, a picture of perfection with her fay-like figure in the dainty white floral dress she was wearing, her lips slicked in light red.

“I’m looking for Harry, and I think you were talking to him when I saw him last. Do you have any idea where he took off to?” Tris cleared up.

Taylor’s surprised expression turned into a sweet smile. “I do, actually. He went to his dressing room, said he needed some time for himself. To prepare. That must have been about half an hour ago.”

“Thank you, Tay.”

“Wait,” Taylor said, a soft touch to Tris’ forearm. “I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t get the chance to: Are the two of you, you know, _dating_?”

Tris took a deep breath. “Yes. We are. And apparently it doesn’t make a lick of sense to keep a low profile about it. You’re the third person to bring it up today, as a matter of fact, along with Perrie Edwards and Robbie Williams.”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

“You haven’t. These types of news just seem to spread like wildfire.”

Taylor grinned knowingly, and somehow managed to still look innocent doing it. “Oh, I’ve been there, believe me. It’s cool, though. I’m glad you two found each other.”

Tris didn’t know what to say to that, so she simply nodded, gave Taylor a small smile and headed off towards Harry’s dressing room. She made it down the stairs unscathed, before turning the next corner, where she closely evaded another crash, this time with Liam.

“God, I’m terrible at not running into other people today, sorry! I nearly knocked Taylor Swift out only a minute ago, and now you seem to be my next victim,” she apologised, her hands on his arms, steadying them both.

He grinned. “Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll live.”

“Have you seen Harry, by any chance? Taylor said he was in his dressing room.”

Liam’s smile faded a little. “He is. And I don’t think he’s coming out soon. Doesn’t want to talk to anyone.”  
A slight rush of panic spiked up in Tris’ stomach. “Something happened?”  
Liam shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t call it that. I’ve seen him in that condition a few times, right before the first live shows we did in 2011. It’s been a while since he had that kind of stage fright. I get it, though. First time in the spotlight after the attack, and in the same bloody place, too, it’s not easy.”

Tris’ panic subsided, making space for worry, but also for some relief about the fact that it was nothing worse than stage fright. “I’m gonna talk to him. If he lets me.”

Liam gave her a grateful smile and a companionable pat on the shoulder. “Good luck.”

“Thank you.”

The rest of the way to dressing room 2.07 was delightfully devoid of encounters with human impediments and involuntary attempts on their lives; but unsurprisingly Tris’ knock at the door prompted no answer.

She solved that problem by simply walking in.

There she found Harry sat in his make-up-chair, his elbows propped up on the dressing table, his forehead resting on the heels of his hands. She could see in the mirror that his eyes were closed, and his face was scrunched up, like he was trying to concentrate on something very difficult.

“Hey. It’s me.”

His head shot upwards in astonishment, his eyes zeroing in on hers through the mirror only a second later. “Hey.” He tried to sound nonchalant, but she couldn’t remember ever having seen him that nervous. In a few strides she was behind him, putting her hands on his shoulders, a bold pattern of dark red roses over black beneath her fingertips.

“What’s going on in that brilliant head of yours?” She kept her voice soft but urgent; and Harry’s right hand took hold of hers on his shoulder, like a reflex, the silver rose ring on his fourth finger a mirror of the print on the shirt he was wearing. His skin was cool and damp against hers.

“I’m scared,” he answered, quietly. “Last time I was on this stage people died.” The way he said it was almost laconic, but it hit Tris in the gut all the harder for it.

“That was last time. Today is different.” She felt his left grab onto her left as well, his eyes still fixed to hers in the mirror, an invisible anchor between them.

“How do you know?”

“Because a month ago, someone told me everything was going to be alright, when I believed it the least and needed it the most, sitting in a chair like yours, waiting for a catastrophe to happen. In the end none of the bad things I’d imagined came to pass. Now I’m telling you the same thing, and I’m asking you to trust me on this. You’ll be great. And they’ll be fine.”

His grip on her hands grew stronger for a moment, before relenting just slightly. A long-held breath left his lips. “Can you stay with me a little?”

“I can, Harry. Of course, I can.”

 

 

***

 

 

He walked out on stage alone, stark red florals on black-in-black, the surging wave of applause only an afterthought in Tris’ consciousness as she followed him with her eyes from the sidelines, a soft smile on her face. He opened the concert without a word, simply picked up his guitar and started playing _Ever Since New York;_ and Tris would have gotten lost in his song very quickly, hadn’t somebody diverted her attention by tapping her on the shoulder halfway through the first chorus.

“Now, Ms Callahan, I think it’s time to reveal your secret.” Niall was grinning at her, his own guitar already strapped across his back, ready for his performance that was supposed to take place right after Harry’s two-song-set, his blond hair fashionably rumpled up into uneven spikes.

She looked at him, startled. “What secret?”

“Ten minutes,” Niall made a small gesture with his head towards Harry, eyebrows raised. “Liam told me that’s all it took you to get him out of his dressing room and back to shaking hands with Robbie Williams. I remember Zayn and me having to talk him down for hours on end last time he got that scared. So what did you do?”

Tris surveyed him with an upward quirk of her mouth. “You’re giving me too much credit, Niall. I didn’t do anything. Certainly nothing you or Louis or Liam didn’t do for him just the same.” She turned her eyes back to Harry. The view of his face wasn’t very good from here, behind the constructions on the side of the stage, but she could tell that his posture was relaxed and his hands were confident on his guitar, his voice loud and clear through the speakers. “That was all him. After ten minutes of holding my hand he put his chin up, pushed his shoulders back, gave me a very convincing smile and walked out there, unwavering, as if nothing had happened.”

Niall shook his head and looked at Harry with a thoughtful expression.

“It’s hard to tell what’s going on inside him sometimes, isn’t it?”

“Can’t say you’re wrong,” Tris gave back, watching Harry intently. “I couldn’t have done what he’s doing today. Not in a million years. I’m so proud of him.”

“Nothing to add to that.”

She put her hand on Niall’s arm and gave him a brief smile, which he returned; and then they stopped talking and listened to Harry perform the rest of the song, blending it over into _Sweet Creature._ Obviously, people were waiting for _Sign of the Times_ at this point _,_ but Harry had decided to put that at the end of the tribute as a conclusion, keep them guessing and waiting a little longer; and thus there were a few shocked gasps when he bowed after the second song and stepped away from the microphone, not walking out of sight but towards a semicircle of four chairs on stage, roughly diagonal to where Tris and Niall were standing. He sat down on the first one on the left, and after a few seconds of confusion people started losing their shit when they realised who the other chairs were for.

A stage assistant came up to Tris and Niall just then, giving the latter the sign for his entrance, prompting him to straighten his back next to Tris and put on his serious-face. She gently poked his side. “Off you go, Horan. Make music, take names, rock the house.”

He grinned at her, stepped out into the lights, massive applause in his wake, and did precisely that.

Tris didn’t leave her position during his performance, exchanged a few words and good wishes with Louis who had his set right after Niall’s, then with Liam who came last. She could basically feel the excitement from the crowd rising, even from here, where most of it remained invisible to her, as the last missing member of One Direction stepped on stage, three of four chairs already filled. This particular set-up had been Louis’ idea and, honestly, it was brilliant. People in the arena could witness their band being put back together piece by piece with each solo performance of its members – and it made them go absolutely nuts.

Only seconds later, it seemed, Liam had sung his last note, given Seattle a shout-out, stepped back and sat down on the last chair. The applause was deafening at this point, and it was only then that Tris realised that what she was witnessing here was an event of truly historical proportions. She thought back to having thrown the public reception of One Direction’s one-concert-reunion into the same box as something as impossibly overwhelming as _The Beatles_ getting back together _ironically_ , but looking at them now, hearing the crowd blow the roof off of this place just at the sight of them, and feeling like she was on the brink of something life-altering herself, she realised that she had been – completely unintentionally, and completely unironically – right on point with her observation.

Three more microphone stands were being carried on stage.

Then the boys got up, at the same time, a perfectly synchronised four-piece in motion, and Tris _knew_ which songs they were about to perform in which order, but she was still at the edge of her seat before the first notes of _Story of My Life_ reached her ears. When Harry opened the song, gently, almost like he was touching an old book he was worried about falling to dust under his fingertips, Tris couldn’t look away any more. The transitions between him and Liam, then him again, then Niall, were seamless, all of the boys so drawn into the reality of their performance that every note, lyric and vocal found its place like a puzzle piece in a bigger picture right from the beginning. Tris felt her mouth move with the lyrics, without her doing, felt herself grow restless when the song ended, waiting, _hoping_ that this wasn't over yet, and it wasn’t, not just yet, not after _Night Changes_ and not after _Drag Me Down_ and not after _Perfect_ , but then, inevitably, the first verse of _History_ came; and there was a big, warm hand on Tris’ shoulder blade, all of a sudden, making her jerk.

“Your mascara is going to run off, sweetheart.”

Robbie was looking at her, dressed up in full stage gear, waistcoat and all, offering her a tissue, and Tris laughed through the tears she hadn’t realised she’d been spilling for the last five minutes.

“It’s waterproof,” she said, sniffling, but she dutifully took the tissue and dried her cheeks, Robbie’s hand rubbing soothing circles into her back.

“You’re allowed to cry. They’re really good.” He followed her gaze to the stage, where the boys were working their way through the chorus now, and his blue eyes took on an expression that was very hard to read. “Good old times.”

A few seconds passed, before he turned back to Tris. “Since you’re already here, why don’t you come and do my first song with me?”

She looked at him, her eyes widening in complete bafflement. “ _What_?”

“Well, I’m doing _Angels_ , obviously, but I’m going to start off with _Love My Life_. You know it?”

“Uhhh, yeah. I think,” she managed, thoughts spinning in her head at an unhelpful pace.

“Great! Lyrics aren’t a problem with the little cheat-screen at the front, and I’ll help you, if you feel like it’s going to hell in a hand basket. What do you say?”

Tris blinked at him, still not sure what exactly was happening here, but excitement was bubbling up from her stomach through her system, despite herself, and part of her (the part of her, maybe, that Harry claimed was born for this job) forced her to open her mouth and say: “It would be an honour.”

Robbie smiled at her. “I already told them to leave two mics on stage.”  
It took her staggered mind a few seconds to grasp the implications. When it finally did, she frowned at Robbie. “You knew I’d say yes?”

He took his hand away from her back and slung his arm lightly around her shoulders instead, a slow smile playing on his lips. “Of course you’d say yes. You love this just as much as I do. As these boys do. Nothing wrong with that.” Tris wanted to say something clever, but she couldn’t see Robbie being wrong. She loved it. That was a fact.

 _History_ entered its last round, bridge, then chorus, twice, and it was over. Niall moved closer to his microphone stand, and when the applause had subsided enough to hear him speak (after about half a minute) he raised his voice.

“Thank you, Seattle, for being here, for supporting and giving and loving so much. We’re One Direction, and I promise you, here and now, that this has not been the last time we’ve been on stage together. I _promise_.”

With that he stepped back, they took their last bow, all four of them together, arm in arm, smiles on their faces, and Tris struggled with tears for a few moments once again. Then they walked off to the opposite side of the stage, one by one, but remained behind the constructions there, out of the crowd’s sight. Apparently they didn’t want to miss Robbie’s performance.

The chairs they’d sat on were being taken away, two of the four microphone stands with them, giving the crowd some time to cool off, and Tris realised, a little shocked, that she’d forgotten to ask Robbie a very important question.

“How are we gonna split it up? The song, I mean. I can’t do harmonies, I don’t know it well enough for that.”

“Don’t worry. I go out, ask you in. Then I do the first verse, we do the chorus together, you take the second verse, chorus together, bridge together, chorus together. That good?”

Tris nodded. Her hands were shaking ever so slightly, and she silently re-capped the lyrics of the song in her head and rushed through a few of her breathing exercises, just before Robbie was given his sign from the stage assistant. He took his arm off of Tris’ shoulders, gave her a last, encouraging smile and a nod, and marched out on stage. The round of applause that followed was nowhere near as roaring as the one Harry, Niall, Louis and Liam had gotten each, and Tris remembered what Robbie had said before, on the way to his dressing room: _You forget that I’m not big in America, sweetheart._

He took it in stride, stepping up to the microphone and letting his gaze wander over the crowd.

“Wow, this is amazing. Some of you actually know me.”

That was the first time that day Tris heard laughter erupt from the audience.

“For those of you who have no idea why there’s an old plonker blocking your view of the stage: I’m Robbie Williams. I’m really famous in Europe. I know you’ve heard this line before, probably from someone who was asking you out on a date to no avail, but you can google it. People in Europe actually know me.”

More laughter, that slowly subsided when Robbie’s voice turned more serious. “We’ve just witnessed the reunion of one of the biggest boy bands of all time a few minutes ago, and that’s quite a tough act to follow, not least because those boys are really fucking good at what they’re doing.”  
Applause, long and loud.

“But I’ve been in luck. Backstage I happened to meet a beautiful young lady with a fantastic singing voice that I believe you _might_ actually know. And she was so generous as to offer to sing my first song with me. Which makes my job tonight a lot easier. Please welcome, on stage, the gorgeous Ms Callahan.”

When Tris stepped out into the hot brightness of the floodlights she was greeted with nearly double as much applause as Robbie had gotten, which was _mental_ , just thinking about it. Upon reaching the microphone her hands had stopped shaking and a warm feeling had taken the place of the anxiety in her gut, like her body was telling her that she’d done this before and that it was nothing to be afraid of.

“Good evening, Seattle. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being here tonight. And thank you, Robbie, for singing with me. I love you, and I can’t quite believe I’m standing here, next to you.” She paused for a moment. “Now, this is a very spontaneous duet. He asked me backstage five minutes ago while I was still crying along to _History-_ “

She couldn’t continue right away, because the cheers from the crowd drowned out her voice.

“-so, I’m just warning you, I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Laughter.

“This song that we’re about to sing was written by me, two years ago, for my baby daughter,” Robbie continued. “But I think, today – every day, but today in particular – it applies to all of us. And we should never forget it. It’s called _Love My Life._ ”

The band started playing behind them and Robbie took his mic from the stand, stepping back. Tris followed suit, as the lyrics and Robbie’s voice took hold of her, full and lively.

_Tether your soul to me. I will never let go completely._

_One day your hands will be strong enough to hold me._

_I might not be there for all your battles, but you’ll win them eventually._

_I pray that I’m giving you all that matters, and one day you’ll say to me._

He sang those last two lines looking at her, smiling, and the scales fell from Tris’ eyes just about then, because of course, _of course,_ doing _this_ song with her had not been a random choice. Their duet was not just a clever marketing trick on his part. This was empowerment, an opportunity to make her do what she loved and feel stronger for it, to make people watch her while doing it, and feel stronger for it as well.

This was a gift.

_I love my life, I am powerful, I am beautiful, I am free._

_I love my life, I am wonderful, I am magical, I am me._

Tris’ eyes grew a little wet, when the second verse started, but she sang, without a single look at the lyrics screen, some part of her marvelling at how the hell Robbie could have gotten it so very, very right.

_I am not my mistakes_

_But God knows I’ve made a few._

Robbie’s arm was around her waist right then, stabilising her, pulling her through the rest of the song. When it was over, it felt like about ten tons of lead had been lifted from Tris’ heart, and she knew she was crying right now, on stage, for everyone to see, but there were cheers and applause surrounding her as she hugged Robbie, tightly, whispering “Thank you. Thankyou, thankyou, thankyou” into his ear. He hugged her back, and she was waving, smiling and crying, walking off stage on the opposite side to where they’d come from.

She had forgotten about the fact that Niall, Louis, Liam and Harry were still there, having watched Robbie’s and her performance, realised it only when more arms than she could possibly count at once pulled her into a big hug. They remained like that for a while, a knot of limbs and warmth.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Tris, warn us the next time.” That was Louis’ voice somewhere in the vicinity of her left ear.

“I couldn’t. He just asked me,” she brought out.

“Sounds like him,” Niall gave back.  
Slowly but surely as Tris’ tears stopped falling they disentangled themselves from each other, and she could see that she wasn’t the only one who had cried. Harry’s eyes looked decidedly red.

“You were brilliant,” he said, softly.

She wrapped him up in an embrace, couldn’t not, her fingers in his hair, not a thought wasted on coyness about sharing their intimacy with the three other boys around them. “You, too, Harry. God, I’m so proud of you, you have no idea.”

Harry’s arms wound themselves a little tighter around her back. “ _When I’m feeling weak, and my pain walks down a one-way street,”_ he half-mumbled, half-sang into her hair; and Tris realised that she’d completely blanked out Robbie singing _Angels_ on stage, but she didn’t want to let go of Harry to look, because this was another one of those sacred moments (like singing with him in Madison Square Garden or kissing _Sake_ out of his mouth in a cab or holding onto him in a blue, gloomy Seattle hotel room), so she stayed in his arms and hummed along, breathing him in.

“ _And as the feeling grows, she breathes flesh to my bones,”_ Harry sang, quietly.

“That’s my favourite line,” Tris said.  
“It’s a good line. Visceral. Intense.”

“Hm. I always wondered who inspired that song.”

Harry’s lips pressed into her temple. “Don’t know. Don’t think Robbie knows. Don’t think it matters. Everyone makes of it what they will, anyway.”

“Death of the Author.”

“Precisely.”  
“What do _you_ make of it, then?” she asked, curiously.

He didn’t answer for a short while, and the song was already drawing to a close, when he said: “I think I know what he’s talking about, not necessarily because I understand it. Because I feel it. Does that make any sense? Whatsoever?”

Tris nodded against his shoulder. “That makes a lot of sense, actually.”

“Good.” His hand was stroking her hair. “Good.”

 

 

***

 

 

Tris’ set was well-received to say the least, but the three songs she had chosen were over in the blink of an eye. Putting her mic back in the stand after the last one she looked into the crowd. They’d been playing for three and a half hours, every set a highlight, only short pauses in between, leaving the audience for nothing to want but one last song, the song they’d been waiting for since Harry’s set in the beginning; and now it was upon her to wrap this up.

“Thank you, Seattle, thank you, I can’t repeat it often enough. I’m speaking for every artist tonight, we’ve been on this stage, all of us close to tears. Or, sometimes, even _in_ tears. This is a concert so near and dear to all our hearts, and feeling your emotions reflected back to us on stage, your love and your hope and your unity, makes it all so worthwhile. There’s something very pure and necessary in celebrating something as universal as music together this way, especially in times like the ones we’re living in. Harry told me once that he believed, above all other things, in love. Giving it, receiving it, putting it out into the world every day. Some days it’s harder than others. Some days you can’t. Those days should be the exception. His words really stuck with me. Maybe they’ll stick with you, too.” She made a pause, filled with an uproar of applause. “We’re going to give you one last song, now, Harry and me. You know which one. Remember, you’re all strong, you don’t even know how strong. Keep your heads up and never stop loving. _Ever._ This is Harry Styles, _Sign of the Times._ ”

She didn’t have to look to know he was on stage, shouts and cheers in his wake. The music started behind them, as he walked up to his microphone, and Tris looked at him with a smile. He managed to smile back, even though there was a good deal of sadness stuck in his eyes, too.

They sang it, and the whole arena sang along, ardently, devoutly, like it would save humanity if they only sang fervently enough. _The perfect soundtrack for the end of the world,_ Tris recalled having read in an article upon the song’s release a year ago. What the article hadn’t mentioned was how it was also the perfect soundtrack for a new beginning. Somewhere along the way, Harry’s hand found Tris’, without them moving away from their respective microphone stands, clasping it softly, and not letting go until they reached the end.

_We gotta get away._

The song finished, and with it the concert, breathless silence for half a second, and then applause, applause, more than in Madison Square Garden, more than Tris had received in her lifetime, and probably more than Harry had received, too. They bowed, still holding hands; and looking at Harry, Tris saw that he was smiling, without sadness, finally, like this had been a catharsis, redemption of sorts.

“Good night, Seattle,” he said, softly.

The applause lasted long after they’d already walked off stage.


	17. It's All In The Eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This time, for a change, no lyrics were stolen.  
> All of the song texts used and referenced in this chapter have been written by me :)  
> (This is another long one, I don't know what's happening...)

Her phone vibrated next to her on the nightstand, very insistently, and she blinked her eyes open with utter disdain. This was the forth time now, in a row. Whoever was calling her at this hour either didn’t know she was the exact opposite of a morning person, or simply didn’t care. The vibrating didn’t stop, though, and grudgingly, Tris grabbed her phone.

_Harry Styles calling…_

She contemplated not answering, and throwing the device across the room for good measure so it wouldn’t disturb her any more, but then her conscience reminded her that this was her _boyfriend_ calling and it might be important, so she slid her finger across the screen with a deep sigh.

“Hey, you’re awake!” Harry’s voice on the other end sounded cheery, like it wasn’t buttfuck-o’-clock.

“Correction,” Tris retorted, her voice rough like sandpaper from sleep. “I’m awake _now._ Has the world ended, or why are you calling me at this godless hour?”

“It’s 8.30,” Harry gave back, like that answered anything.

“Just like I said, this godless hour. You know how much I hate mornings.”

“I do.” It sounded a little too gleeful, and Tris’ eyes narrowed.

“If you’re trying to make me hate mornings less you’re not succeeding, you know.”

“Are you sure? ‘Cause I’m right in front of your door, bearing bagels and coffee.”

She was a lot more awake all of a sudden. “You’re bribing me with food?”

“Is it working?”

“Hm. How many bagels?”

“Bagels _and_ muffins.”

Tris ended the call without another word and climbed out of bed, an involuntary smile on her lips as she padded across her apartment towards the door. A quick look in the mirror in the living room told her that her black hair was still firmly tied up in a braid at the back of her head, her negligee was hugging her curves more ore less crease-free, and apart from the usual black rings beneath her hazel eyes and a few pimples on her chin and nose, she looked pretty respectable for the circumstances. She grabbed her morning gown from where she’d last left it on the sofa and put it on along the way.

Opening her apartment door she found Harry in front of it, the scent of coffee mixed with freshly applied aftershave wafting in. His smile was big and honest, his eyes sparkling, his hair tied into a deliberately messy bun, strands of it framing his face in a very lovely manner, and even though she tried her hardest, Tris couldn’t be mad at him.

He didn’t need to know that right away, though.  
“What do I even have a doorman for?”

“Mr Gorski likes bagels, too,” Harry gave back, a mischievous look in his eyes.

“Corruption is spreading like nobody’s business, isn’t it?”

“Can I come in?”

Tris sighed, abysmally, and made space for him in the doorway. “This is an exception. You’re not showing up every morning at 8.30 at my door to wake me up.”

“Not even with bagels and muffins?”

“Even bagels and muffins get boring after a while.”

“Then I’m going to find something else.” He bowed forward to kiss her, but Tris took it upon herself to save him from that experience with a stern hand on his chest.

“Harry, no offence, but my mouth tastes like arse, and I’m not doing that to you. Even though you probably deserve it. Put the coffee and food in the kitchen, I’ll be right along.”

She hurried over into the bathroom, brushing her teeth at lightning speed, before she made her way back through the living room into the kitchen, where Harry was browsing his phone, bagels and muffins lovingly arranged on two small plates.

“You bought chocolate cheesecake ones, oh my God,” she said, awestruck.  
Harry looked up at her, putting his phone away with a grin. “Can I kiss you now?”

“Knock yourself out, it’s all minty freshness in here.”

“Perfect,” he retorted, stepping up to her and pushing a loose strand of hair out of her forehead, before he captured her lips with his, passionately, like he hadn’t done it nearly enough in the last few days. Well, it wasn’t his fault; after all they’d only just come back from their exhausting Seattle trip yesterday in the early morning, and between the photo shoot Harry had had scheduled in some remote location right after, and Tris’ date with Callie and her lawyers, they’d decided that it was more sensible for both of them to meet the next day, when they wouldn’t be too tired to walk.

The kiss deepened considerably after a while, their tongues slipping in, Tris’ fingers exploring Harry’s warm, naked skin beneath his shirt; but then, surprisingly, he stepped back a little, putting distance between them. Tris made an unhappy sound in her throat.

“If we continue here, we’ll get nothing done today except each other,” Harry said, his breath going fast, his pupils a little dilated.

“That’s not too bad, is it?” Tris retorted. She wasn’t faring much better in the breathing department than Harry.

“Well, no, but – we have some music to write, I believe. I have a few recordings of bits and ideas on my phone, and there are some text fragments, but we need to go over them, polish them, revise them or throw them out of the window altogether and start anew, I’m not quite sure-“

“Woah,” Tris interrupted his flow of speech. “What happened to not going hard on the studio for a few days? Touring New York with me? Or, at least, getting to know my apartment a little better?”

Harry smirked. “I wasn’t proposing we go to the studio, but you happen to have a piano here, so I thought…”

“You thought let’s go right at it like the workaholics we are? And that from the man who claimed he wanted to take honest-to-God _holidays_ after the end of his world tour.”

Harry’s hands came to rest on her upper arms, and the expression in his not quite green eyes turned very intense. “There are so many ideas floating around in my mind, some of them inspired by the concert, some of them just popping into my head at random, that it’s impossible to keep track of them. I haven’t been able to access that sort of creativity in months. So why don’t we do it, work on it, while it’s fresh, and there, and-”  
Tris shook her head to stop him. “Alright, alright, you got me. I’m in. Can I get ready and have breakfast before we start or do we assault the piano straight away?”

 

 

***

 

 

“So what if we just flip it around instead, go from F major to C major and then back to A minor, and _then_ to G major. So it would be _I leave another stage and pray for inspira-a-a-tion._ With a high note at the end.”

Harry nodded as she hit the keys on the piano, bowed over his sheets that were scattered all over the grand part of the grand piano in Tris’ living room. “I like it. Then repeat?”

“Yeah, without G major on the first line, _Nights with you are glowing bright. Lit by neon lights and you in all your colours._ And it comes back at the end.”

“That works.” Harry smiled at her, then yawned, suddenly, and Tris shook her head with a low laugh on her lips.

“Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”

“Mh, maybe we should take a break. How late is it?”

Tris looked at her phone. “Half past six.”  
“Jesus.”

“We could order some food in, I’m starving anyway.”

“Brilliant idea,” Harry agreed. “Salad?”

“Fine by me. I’ll get my laptop.” Tris stood up from her chair and rounded the piano to get to her desk in the corner, fleetingly brushing Harry’s cheek with her hand on the way.

When she had brought the computer to life, the first thing she noticed was a bunch of new e-mails she’d received in her absence, the latest one from Callie. Its content spontaneously sidetracked her from her original task.

 

_Subject: Billboard Review_

_Read this, if you haven’t._

_Love, CD_

Tris opened the attachment. It was an article, taken from the _Billboard_ website _._ The headline read: **_A Tribute For The Ages._**

 

 ** _By Daniel Whitman._** _Singing at a tribute concert is one of the most morally un-ambiguous things an artist can do. Most people tend to agree that supporting a good cause is great, especially when you’re famous. But sadly, from a critic’s perspective, tributes rarely give the participating artists the right incentives to deliver greatness. There is usually very little time for rehearsals beforehand, nobody cares about competition, and neither the risks nor the rewards are particularly high. (One big exception to the rule that comes to mind here is Queen’s performance at Live Aid 1985.)_

_This Friday saw Seattle’s KeyArena to host its biggest Tribute Concert to date, by the resounding name SeattleStandsStrong, dedicated to everyone affected by the horrific events of nearly two weeks ago (see: Knife Attack at Seattle Concert)._

_To say the list of artists who partook – hand-picked by 24-year-old pop icon Harry Styles himself – was stuffed with A-Listers would be an understatement. Next to international superstars like Lorde, Taylor Swift, Lana del Rey, Coldplay and Ed Sheeran, as well as European superstars Little Mix and Robbie Williams, the concert also provided the platform for a long-awaited reunion: Harry, Liam, Louis and Niall came together as One Direction for five songs after nearly 3 years of hiatus. When the news broke half a week ago, Twitter did, too._

_Attending this concert with twenty years of music experience and my afore-mentioned opinion on tributes in the back of my mind, I was prepared for solid performances at best, disappointing ones at worst. So when Harry Styles entered the stage all by himself and gave us – without any ado in form of words – an emotional, confident rendition of his solo song “Ever Since New York”, I was genuinely taken aback at how good it was._

_The surprises didn’t stop there, though, far from it. Niall Horan, who took the stage right afterwards, delivered his new single “Solitary” with a new-found vulnerability I hadn’t seen in him to date. It seemed to me, more and more, that the tribute concert situation, contrary to my expectations, brought out the best in these artists…_

“Harry, you need to read this! Callie just sent it, _Billboard_ wrote a concert review, and they liked it,” Tris said, without taking her eyes off the page.

_The expectancy of what was to come made for an oddly electrifying atmosphere in the arena, since it became clear quite soon what these solo performances were all leading up to; at the latest when Louis Tomlinson and Liam Payne entered the stage (both of them with solid performances of their latest singles in the EDM and hip-hop department, respectively). With the complete set of four present in one room, the screaming, infectious excitement around me already reminded me of old black-and-white videos from the times of Beatle-mania I’d seen on my Mom’s TV. Watching them perform, I suddenly, strangely understood what it must feel like to be a fan of One Direction. The shock wave of excitement, relief and emotion that rolled through the crowd with their first song took me completely by surprise (and I started singing along before I could remind myself that I was not a 19-year-old having the time of his life, but a 42-year-old concert critic who had a job to do). For an objective third party, the songs One Direction performed in Seattle this Friday were well-made pop-jams with earworm character sung by twenty-somethings with acceptable voices. For everyone present, they became a lot more than that. (If Niall doesn’t break his promise, and One Direction gives us more than just this one show in the future, I’ll be there. Not as a concert critic, but as the 19-year-old inside me that wanted nothing more than to sing and dance with everybody else this Friday.)_

Tris felt Harry’s warm hands on her shoulder as he arrived behind her and started to read the text over her head. She didn’t take the time to look at him, sucked into the narrative and recapping the concert in her mind while reading about it, a grin stretching her lips wide.

_Robbie Williams, the next star on stage, challenged with the impossible task of following up on One Direction, dryly quipped right at the beginning that he was not, in fact, famous in America; and from what I witnessed after, America might have missed out on something. Alongside him Robbie called newcomer pop star Tris Callahan to the stage, to perform a spontaneous (yes, it actually wasn’t rehearsed, I couldn’t believe it myself, but my sources say so) duet. Callahan’s soaring, voluminous and crystal clear vocals, fitting for an opera singer, aligned well with William’s pleasantly straightforward baritone, and the fact that she shed a few tears at the end of the song (after having declared Williams one of her idols right at the beginning) made me aware of why I like her more than a lot of her colleagues: She proved later on with her own set once again that she is one of the greatest voices of this day and age (I’ll mention her truly breathtaking rendition of Lost At Sea as an example), yet performing with an almost-unknown-to-her-audience pop singer made her cry on stage. If that isn’t authentic, I don’t know what is. (For all of you who might be frowning right now, remembering that four-weeks-old plagiarism story – I know my exes are telling lies about me, and I’m not above telling lies about my exes; why should celebrities fare any better?)_

“Wow, he’s really… wow,” Harry said, next to Tris’ ear and she nodded.

“He _loved_ it. It’s crazy. Can I scroll?”

“Yeah.”

It was a long article, but they both read it in its entirety. The conclusion made Tris’ hands shake a little, and her smile contracted a small, watery edge, when she came to it.

_“Sign of the Times”, performed by Harry Styles and Tris Callahan, sealed the deal for me. The sheer emotion reflected in the audience, the palpable atmosphere of hope and pain at the same time, underlined by a punch of a song and two great voices that intertwined in perfect harmony: This is what music is supposed to feel like. SeattleStandsStrong was not only a tribute for Seattle, it was a tribute for the ages. Thank you, Harry Styles, Tris Callahan and everybody, who made this dream of a concert come true. My inner 19-year-old loves you. And my outer 42-year-old loves you just as much._

 

***

 

 

The _Billboard_ review and the salads they’d finally managed to eat at about eight, had given them new motivation and a few fresh ideas; and so, as the clock ticked closer to eleven and the standard lamp next to the piano had become the only source of light in the living room, apart from the far-away skyscrapers beyond the window that lit up the other side of Central Park, their first song was done.

“Okay,” Tris said, smiling at Harry over her sheets on the piano. “Once more, with feeling.”

He pressed the button on his mobile phone, gave her a thumbs up, and she started playing the intro. Harry didn’t even need her sign to find his entrance.

 

_Time drags by every day,_

_I leave another stage and pray for inspiration._

_Nights with you are glowing bright,_

_lit by neon lights and you in all your colours._

_Touch my mind, brush my thoughts_

_Oh, it’s easier in the dark._

_Draw me in, gut me gently_

_Eyes are blind around us._

_What a game, throw a card, are we playing any more?_

_Dream them up, sins and lies, we’re never winning, always losing,_

_always losing our minds._

 

The chorus wasn’t completely polished yet, but Tris still tried for some harmonies, and smiled when they worked. She played a small bridge-like instrumental in between, before she took the second verse:

 

_Your face is shaped in red and blue_

_Words have left my head, there’s nothing to be spoken._

_We are standing by a wall._

_Someone wrote a song about us once, you know._

Back to the chorus, once, twice, and it was over.

Harry checked the recording on his phone. “Three minutes, three seconds,” he announced.

“Perfect time.”

He grinned at her, and Tris felt herself grin back, inevitably. “Is it to your liking, Mr Styles?” she asked, even though she knew the answer already.

“Very, very much so.” Harry walked towards her, around the piano chair, slowly, and put his arms around her from behind, his nose at the side of her face. “I love working with you,” he whispered, and a small shudder ran through Tris as she gently clasped his forearms with her hands. His hair was tickling the skin of her neck, and it came to her mind, suddenly, again, how long they hadn’t slept with each other. Given that they were still at the beginning of their relationship, it felt like ages. Harry seemed to think so, too, because his mouth started wandering, drifting down her neck over her shoulder, while his fingers nimbly shoved the strap of her olive green top off down her arm.

Tris’ breathing quickened, when his hand danced lower, pushing her shirt up and moving over her naked stomach. “Mmmh,” Harry made, as her head fell back against his shoulder with a soft moan. “You like that?”

“If you haven’t realised it yet, Harry, you can do whatever you want to me and I’ll like it.”

She felt his fingers twitch against her skin, and a small smile formed on her lips at the thought of having made him lose his composure for a second.

“Oh, can I?” His hand moved out from under her shirt, gliding back up her side; and his mouth left her shoulder with a gentle kiss. “Would you be so kind, close the lid over the keys and stand up for a moment?” he murmured into her ear. She could hear the smile in his words and refrained from asking, for once, what he was on about, just did what she was told, closing the lacquered lid over the piano keys before her, getting to her feet; and then everything happened quite fast, the chair was pushed aside and Harry’s lips touched the nape of her neck for a split second, before he turned her around and hoisted her up by her thighs in one smooth motion, until she was sitting comfortably, if a little surprised, on the lid she’d closed a second ago, Harry between her skirt-clad legs, mischief in the corners of his eyes.

“That was hot,” Tris observed.

“That was just the beginning,” Harry gave back, and then his mouth was on Tris’, his tongue at her lower lip; and she’d never get enough of that in her lifetime.

Their kiss turned into something slightly dirtier with more teeth, and Harry placed his hands at her lower back, pulling her into him, until his hips were flush against hers, all heat and hard lines. Tris found the hair tie at the back of his head and pulled it off, dark, soft curls falling through her fingers that she grabbed onto and used to gently bend his head to the side, kissing and nipping at the tendons of his neck muscles, inhaling the scent of his skin. He groaned, growing noticeably harder between her legs, and his arms pulled her as close as possible.

“Clothes. I need to see you,” he demanded, breathless, pulling at the hem of her shirt; and Tris raised her arms to let him take it off her, before going ahead and opening the buttons on his dark blue shirt. When she was halfway done she had to stop and touch the black inked swallow on the right side of Harry’s sternum, a fact that seemed to be very amusing to him, going by the light chuckle leaving his lips, as he took it upon himself to open the rest of the buttons.

“You’re easily distracted,” he remarked, but the words didn’t have any bite to them.  
“That’s because you’re unreasonably beautiful,” Tris retorted, pressing a small kiss to his clavicle, before Harry crowded her back into the piano, so her head was resting at the upper part of the lacquered music stand on top of it, rumpling up the sheets on it. He started spreading kisses from her neck down the hollow of her throat, swiftly taking her bra off in the process as well, until her head was spinning with want.

“Unreasonably,” he said, stopping for a moment, his hands framing her ribcage, an awestruck look in his eyes. “Like beauty has any reason to begin with.”

Tris shoved hair out of Harry’s face, and dragged him closer with three fingertips against his cheek, until their lips were only a breath apart. “Then you’re beautiful without any reason to begin with,” she retorted; and Harry’s mouth was on hers again, a disarray of emotions in the kiss that made her feel strung-out in the best of ways.

Harry’s hands spanned her back, holding on, and Tris wanted, _needed_ to have him, but the position she was currently in denied her access, so she let go of him, bringing distance between them, until she could slide off the piano. She kept her hands on his chest as she walked him over to the chair he had pushed away, closer to the window.

Shadows played on his face as she went to work on his trousers, and he kissed her again in the process, slow and passionate. When she was about to push the pesky fabric off him and down to the floor, Harry stopped her for a second, pulling a foil packet out of his pocket and Tris shook her head at him.

“Who are you? Boy Scout? Be prepared always?”

Harry smiled, let his trousers fall and stepped out of them. “You know it.”

They went back to kissing, and Tris managed to get rid of both of their underwear, leaving Harry to deal with the condom, before he finally sat down on the piano chair, pulling Tris with him, on top of him. He sank into her with a sigh, his eyes fixed on hers, almost blue between the shadows painting hatched lines into his face; and they both slowed down, softened their movements, joined as they were, resorting only to a languid, rhythmic grinding between them.

Harry’s mouth was at her throat again, pressing kisses like small promises into the sensitive skin, Tris’ hands in his hair. They lasted long without saying a word, an entirely fulfilling, soul-cleaning trance between them, before Harry’s movements became a little more erratic, and Tris realised he was close.

“Harry,” she said. “Will you look at me?”

His face dove up from her chest, answering to her wish, and Tris took it all in, the softness around his mouth, the dark pools of his eyes, everything raw and open around them in his face.

“I love you,” she said, simply. Harry surged upwards with a moan, blindly, to kiss the words from her lips, and he didn’t need to say anything as he went over the edge, enough truth told in the way his lips rested against hers, his fingers pressed into her back, his breath got lost in her mouth.


	18. Back To Bite You

„This is a disaster of epic proportions!”

Tris didn’t even care that people might hear them, the representatives of the press or the hungry mob of ranting civilians just around the corner who were waiting – no doubt – for a sign of weakness, beside the one Tris had already given them by making her lawyers demand a fifteen-minute-break smack-dab in the middle of the hearing.

Jim’s case was being tried in the venerable halls of the Manhattan Court House, part of the resident Federal District Court. Tris had silently hoped for a smaller setting, but her lawyers had explained to her that – since Jim was a foreigner without residency in the U.S. (something they had called _alienage,_ which sounded mildly racist, as Tris had dryly commented), and the sum they were fighting about was well above 75,000 $ - a normal District Court wouldn’t take the case. Not that it mattered very much. People would be live-tweeting about her misfortune even if the hearing were taking place in the middle of the fucking Sahara.

Callie looked at Mr Benson and Mr Doherty with one raised brow, as she closed the door to the small, wood-panelled, sparsely-furnished conclave they were allowed to use for their crisis sitting behind her.

“Ms Callahan is not wrong. What are you planning to do?”

Mr Doherty, a tall man with a hooked nose and a seemingly ever-persisting frown, cleared his throat. “This was an unfortunate coincidence, but nothing to be really worried about. The fact that Mr Masters possesses copies of previous versions of your songs on his hard-drive doesn’t prove anything. You yourself already stated that you sent them to him on occasion to ask his opinion about-“

“YES, but who the fuck is going to believe THAT, if Jerry says that Jim fucking WORKED on them and sent them back to me, huh?”

“Mr Evans’ involvement as a witness is, as already stated by my colleague, unfortunate,” Mr Benson stepped in, and Tris couldn’t help but notice the small tinge of worry in the brown, sharp gaze beneath his bushy white brows.

“You don’t believe yourself,” she observed, more calmly than she had meant to. “Unfortunate? Let’s call it what it is: A catastrophe. I have no idea how Jim dragged Jerry – _Jerry_ of all people – into this, but apparently I was wrong about not everybody hating my guts. And also about not everybody being an Oscar-worthy actor in court. _Jesus CHRIST._ I thought the press might rip me to shreds, but now they’ll _definitely_ rip me to shreds _and have a fucking point._ ”

“Tris?” Callie’s hand was on her forearm, curbing her stream of consciousness that was slowly but surely turning into a full-blown meltdown. “We haven’t lost yet. No judge will sentence you to anything based on an arbitrary indication. But we need to rethink our strategy.” The last sentence came a little harsher, and was definitely directed at Mr Benson and Mr Doherty, who seemed to shrink in on themselves beneath Callie’s steely gaze. “You have ten minutes, gentlemen, to do what Ms Callahan is paying you enormous amounts of money for.”

Tris thought for a moment that one or both of them might actually say _Yes, Ma’am, of course, Ma’am_ and salute. Instead Mr Doherty took a sudden interest in the polished, black tips of his shoes, and Mr Benson gave a small nod.

Right then the door behind them flew open, and Tris was on the verge of shouting at any press hyena imprudent enough to disturb their meeting, when she spotted familiar, dark curls and a beloved pair of green-ish eyes over a perfectly fitted black suit. Harry had talked to her on the phone in the car all the way to the court house (he hadn’t outright accompanied her, even though he’d offered to, but Callie and Jeff both hadn’t thought it very wise for him to do so), but Tris had found his heartening smile in the audience only shortly after she’d taken her seat next to her lawyers about an hour and a half ago; and even if he hadn’t been holding her hand during the hearing, she had felt a great deal of relief just for him being in the same room as her.

Now his gaze was more agitated than encouraging, and Tris knew immediately that whatever he was about to say, was important.

“What is it, Harry?”

Only then did she notice that he was holding his brightly-screened smartphone in hand, a hand he was now extending towards her. “Your Mum,” he said. “It’s really important, she says.”

Tris blinked at him, stretching her hand out, too, and taking the phone. “How do you have my Mum’s phone number?”

“She gave it to me when the three of us skyped two weeks ago, remember? For sending me cat videos?”

“Yeah, I just, I didn’t think that you’d actually…”

Harry raised an eyebrow, and it was uncanny how well he mirrored Callie’s standard quizzical expression that way. “Answer the call, talk later?”

Tris took the phone to her ear, still slightly baffled. “Ma?”

“Hello, darling! It’s so nice to hear you!” Her mother’s voice sounded down the line like she was welcoming her to afternoon tea.

Tris sighed. “It’s great to hear you, too, Ma, and I really don’t mean to be rude, but I’m in the middle of my hearing, and it’s going a little downhill, because Jim dragged Jerry into it, and – it’s a long story. But Harry said it was important, so….”

“He’s a good one, your Harry,” Amanda gave back. There was a definite sense of pride in her voice, and Tris felt a small, unwelcome scarlet flush spread on her cheeks. _Thank God for make-up._

“He is,” she agreed, unable to stop herself from shooting a small glance in Harry’s direction who had closed the door and was now leaning against it, an interested expression in his eyes.

“Listen, love, I’m not trying to hold you off from anything, but a girl just called and told me you needed to call her back as soon as you’d be able to. She was insisting it was important for your case. And she apologised an awful lot, the poor thing. I’m not sure I know what she was talking about, something about an affair? And about being a terrible person?”

Tris’ pulse sped up, quite suddenly, and her face must have given something away, because Harry was bowing forward now, a keen look on his face. “What was her name?” Tris asked.

“Eva,” Amanda retorted. “Eva Sinclair. I already sent you her name and phone number via WhatsApp, but your phone is switched off, so I called Harry.”

“Thank you, Ma. Really, thank you, this might actually…this might actually be something.”  
“Always happy to help, love. Send Harry my warmest regards. And call me when you’re done!”

“Will do. Love you, Ma.”

“Love you, too, sweet-cheeks.”

Tris ended the call and stared at Harry for a long moment, handing him back his phone. “I need to make another call,” she said, bounding towards her Prada handbag on the chair and rummaging through its contents, until she held her own phone in hands, that was – indeed – switched off.

“Tris, what is it?” Callie demanded behind her.

“Eva Sinclair called my Mum,” Tris explained, hurriedly, while she waited for her phone to get a move on, her eyes fixed on the awakening screen. “She was one of Jim’s affairs two years ago. My Mum said she apologised a lot on the phone. And that I needed to call her. Apparently she has information that’s important for us…”

“Stop, Tris, wait.” Callie took hold of Tris’ hand with the phone, grasping it tightly. “Please think about it first. This could very well be a trap.”

Tris frowned. “What?”

Callie shrugged. “That Eva-person could try and further incriminate you by proving you’ve made this call. She could act like you threatened her to get Jim off your case or something equally...well _. Unfortunate._ ”

Tris looked her in the eye, knowing that there was a definite edge of despair to her voice when she retorted: “What else should I do? This ship is going down, Callie. Am I supposed to not take the chance that might very well save my arse? Juridically speaking, at least?”

“No,” Harry answered, surprisingly. “Tris, you’re right. Not talking to Eva could mean wasting a very good opportunity. But, Callie, you’re right, too. We could record the conversation with our phones, though. If Eva tries anything, we have proof of the contrary. Assuming that something like a voice recording would hold up in court?”

“As a matter of fact, yes, it would”, Mr Doherty threw in, obviously becoming aware of the fact that Harry was currently doing the job he and his colleague were being paid for. “The young gentleman has a point.”

“Well, then you better get your phones out and cover me, because I’m calling _right now_ ,” Tris retorted, curtly, wringing her hand from Callie’s grip and typing in her SIM-Code, before opening WhatsApp.

“You’re not calling from your phone!” Callie snapped. “Send me the contact and call from here. Last thing we need is some stranger hacking your mobile.”

Tris puckered up her lips disapprovingly but didn’t know how to counter her manager’s very sound reasoning. So she did as she was told, typing, then switching phones with Callie. In the time it took her to do that two smartphones were being whipped out and made ready to record. When Tris finally dialled in, loudspeakers activated, Harry walked up to her, coming to stand right beside her, not touching her but close enough that she could feel his warmth. She gave him a grateful smile.

The transatlantic connection took a while to build up, but then, at last, it was beeping, and beeping, and-

“Hello? Is this you, Tris?” Tris vaguely recognised the voice through the speakers. She had met Eva, blonde, pretty Eva, a few times when she had been working in the bar Tris and her band used to frequent after rehearsals, but after Jim’s whole cheating-on-you-with-several-women-thing had come to light, Tris had been very reluctant to set foot in said bar again, to say the least.

“It is.”

A small sigh came from the other end of the line. It sounded like relief. “Listen, Tris, I stumbled across it online – you’re in court? With Jim?”

“I am. What do you want to talk about with me that’s so important that you drag my _Mum_ into it?”

Harry’s hand reflexively landed between her shoulder blades, soothing.

“I’m sorry. Really. About everything. I didn’t know there was going to be a hearing, just saw it, by chance, today, on the itv-website, and I didn’t have your phone number, but your Mum’s landline is in the…” Her voice deteriorated – apparently she realised that she was rambling. “Anyway, I would have come to you way sooner, had I known about it. Jim and I…” She stopped again, but Tris imagined that it might be for different reasons this time. “Jim and I had a few talks about music back then, when we were…you know. That’s how we actually. Well. Bonded. And…oh, I’m not going to beat around the bush here…he said a few really awful things about you. I knew you were his girlfriend at the time, so that should have made all the alarm bells ring, but I’m sure you have first hand knowledge in how it feels to fall for an arsehole.”  
It sounded quite bitter, but also quite honest, and Tris’ fingers relaxed ever so slightly around Callie’s phone. This didn’t smell like a trap. This smelled like somebody with a heartfelt grudge against Jim, and if there was anything Tris could identify with, then it was that.

“I do, as a matter of fact,” she gave back, a little more softly. “So – you can help me?”  
“I think I can, yes. I mean…I’m not a lawyer or anything, but Jim and I, we wrote a lot, and as far as I can tell, he’s trying to sell them your songs as his, right?”  
“That’s right.”

“He didn’t only say terrible things about _you_ , you know? He also said terrible things about your music. Not – not the music you wrote for the band, with him. Your solo stuff. One evening he sent me a speech message with your recording in the background and he – well, he was laughing about it, saying that it was really bad and not worth the saving capacity on his phone, and all that sort of rubbish. I…I found it pretty good, actually, but I didn’t, you know. I didn’t disagree with him. And, well, if he’s trying to convince them that he wrote the music with you, then why wouldn’t he be…proud of it? Or even mention that he co-wrote? I mean. It makes no sense.”

Tris looked over at her lawyers who both seemed very interested in the latest developments. Mr Doherty went so far as to violently nod.

“Listen, Eva. My lawyers are here with me. Do you have the speech message with you?”

“I have it on my computer, right here. You want to hear it?”

Tris had to hold onto herself not to perform an adrenaline-charged, overexcited little jump. “That would be fantastic! More than fantastic. Ah…would you be okay with answering a few questions? And play the message for my lawyers? That would really. Well. Save my arse.”

Eva gave a short laugh. “You haven’t stopped cursing in your pop-star-life. I like it.” She made a pause. “I feel really bad about what we did, Jim and I. And even worse about the lies he’s telling about you. He is a complete arsehole. I don’t want him to win.”

“Thank you, Eva. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart. I owe you one.”

“You don’t. You really, really don’t.”

Tris smiled sadly, thinking about the way Jim had probably given Eva the slip, and how that must have felt.

_Wanker._

She passed the telephone over to Mr Benson, who came as close to making grabby-hands as a 63-year-old distinguished NYC lawyer would probably get. “Ms Sinclair? Hello? My name is Benson, I am Ms Callahan’s lawyer,” he introduced himself.

Tris noticed belatedly that Harry’s hand was still on her back, and a smile had settled on his lips.  
“Thank _God_ my Mum wanted to send you cat videos,” she sighed, quietly, while Mr Benson and Mr Doherty started to perform some sort of soft-core, long-distance cross-examination on Eva.

Harry laughed, pulling her in, and Tris let her head sink against his shoulder. “Do you think it will be okay?” she asked. It was a stupid, childish question, she knew, what with all the journalists outside who were ready to rip her to shreds as soon as she’d leave the building, and the online trolls who were probably already spitting venom on instagram, and her career on its best way into the gutter, but she really couldn’t help herself.

And Harry, bless him, Harry only tightened his warm grip around her shoulders and said, very softly: “Yes, Beatrice. It will be okay."


	19. Forgiven

„After careful consideration of all facts, the court has reached a decision. Mr James Masters‘ lawsuit against Ms Beatrice Callahan is being dismissed. Mr Masters” Judge Elkins, a tall, burly, dark-skinned man with glasses, turned to Jim who was standing up, his suit slightly rumpled and his face growing white under the frosted tips of his hair. “We have come to the conclusion that the evidence you presented us with to prove significant creative involvement in the song writing process of Ms Callahan’s songs _Lost At Sea, Nothing On My Mind_ and _When We Fall_ does not add up _._ There are too many contradictions in your claims, among them your own voice recording from only two years ago.” The judge turned to Tris and gave her a nod. “Ms Beatrice Callahan is acquitted of all charges made against her. The procedural costs are Mr Masters’ to support. An appeal may be tried within one year. The hearing is closed.”

Tris struggled to _not_ outright _kiss_ Mr Doherty, who was standing right next to her, or randomly break into a victory dance, but it was a close call, when she watched Jim desperately trying to keep his face in check as he walked out, past her, stiff-legged and boiling with badly hidden rage; and she sent another big, silent _Thank you_ to Eva in Salisbury.

In the end this hearing had gone so much better than they had dared hope for; considering that Tris’ lawyers had made clear from the very beginning that they'd be trying for a _for want of evidence_ verdict, since they didn’t have anything concrete on their hands whatsoever that could invalidate Jim’s claims. Until – well, until about two hours ago, when they had gotten a whole lot more than just _something_ , in a rather miraculous way: Actual, honest-to-God evidence in Tris’ favour, evidence not even the press could ignore.

A very optimistic part of Tris wondered, if the whole Going-to-court-means-your-career-is-dead-thing hadn’t been hopelessly exaggerated to begin with. _You don’t know that_ , a warning voice reminded her. _Callie wanted this hearing to never happen for a reason._ Tris forced the voice into silence and allowed herself a small, private smile. Whatever was to happen now, the worst part was over.

A strong, slim hand landed on her shoulder and squeezed. “One more trip through the journalists and it’s done,” Callie’s voice said, next to her.

Tris turned around and her smile grew bigger, until it took up her whole face. An exhilarating feeling had started to slowly fill up her insides, and she wanted nothing more than to hug as many people as she possibly could. So, obviously, Callie became her first victim.

“Thank you, Callie,” she murmured, tightly embracing her manager’s slim frame. “For being here. For being the best manager anyone could hope for.”

Callie laughed and hugged her back, for a short moment, before shoving her away again and looking at her with a more stern expression. “There’s a lot we have to do, Tris. I think with this verdict we can risk releasing Harry’s and your first single in the next few weeks. I’ll talk to Jeff, but I think he’ll agree. You know what that means.”

“Promo,” Tris said, happily, without even a hint of the exhausted tone her voice would have taken on in any other circumstances. “I love promo. I can’t wait to do promo. I could do promo for the rest of my life!”

“Okay,” Callie gave back. “Wow, I need you high on endorphins more often.”

She was clearly grinning, saying it.

Tris grinned back, before turning to Mr Benson and Mr Doherty, who both received a spontaneous hug as well; a gesture that seemed to truly stagger them (even though Tris was sure she spotted the hint of a smile in Mr Doherty’s ever-frowning features for half a second, just after she let go of him). “Thank you. Thank you so much. I’ll be happy to pay your astronomically high bill. You were great.”

“It’s been a pleasure, Ms Callahan. Any time,” Mr Benson replied with a tiny bow.

“Not too soon, though, I hope,” Callie gave back. “Do you think Mr Masters might try for an appeal?”

Mr Benson tilted his head to the side, which made him look quite a lot like an old owl. “I doubt it. If I were his lawyer I would violently advise against it. This verdict is – as far as I can see it – final. The evidence against Mr Masters…well, it cannot just be argued away, can it?”

Callie nodded, seemingly content enough with the answer.

“Oh, Gosh, I should go call my Mum,” Tris noted. “Do you think I could use the conclave, Callie?”

“Sure, it’s still open,” her manager replied, and Tris rushed out of the – by now nearly empty – court room, over into the conclave.

She had just taken out her phone and entered her code, when somebody knocked at the door, that she realised, too late, she hadn’t closed completely. Tris turned around, a smile on her face, expecting to see Harry.

But it wasn’t Harry who was standing in the doorframe.

It was Jerry.

Jerry Evans, small, wiry Jerry Evans, who still didn’t look the part of the fantastic drummer that he was, with a kind of uneasiness in his eyes only a guilty conscience can provoke quite so thoroughly.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?” he asked, sheepishly, not meeting her eyes.

Tris thought about before, when he’d been in the witness stand, explaining in great detail how he had seen and heard Jim write and co-write Tris’ songs, spilling lie after lie after lie. And then she thought about herself, two years ago, late for band rehearsal, spilling lie after lie after lie, and nodded, slipping her phone back into her bag.

“Come in.”

Jerry seemed genuinely surprised for a moment, before stepping in and closing the door behind him. He still didn’t manage to look at Tris.

“I didn’t want to, at first. But he convinced me that it was only fair to….well. Mike – Mike didn’t. He said it was done and dusted, told Jim off. He did the right thing.”

“Oh Jerry,” Tris said, and the words came almost soft. “I get it. It was stupid, and selfish, and vindictive, and you could have easily ruined my life with it. But I completely get it.”

Finally, _finally_ he lifted his gaze to look at her, the expression in his eyes even more surprised than when she’d asked him to come in, but also full of remorse.

“So – you actually want to hear my apology?” he asked, cautiously, as if he wasn’t quite sure whether she’d change her mind and throw a chair at him in the next thirty seconds.

Tris gave a short nod. “If you want to hear mine.”

For a second, a tiny smile tugged at the corners of Jerry’s mouth, before his features turned deadly serious again.

“I’m sorry, Tris. For talking bullshit and making you look like a scammer in front of the Federal District Court. For believing that that was anywhere near fair. I was stupid and selfish and vindictive, and I’m sorry.”

Tris looked him firmly in the eye throughout his monologue, and didn’t look away when she answered, her voice only slightly shaking. “I’m sorry, too, Jerry. For lying to you for five months. For screwing you over a week before your next performance. For ending your career. For being too fucking gutless to call when your Dad died last year. I was stupid and selfish and vindictive, and I’m sorry. I really am. Have been for two years.”

Jerry nodded at her. “Forgiven.”

“Forgiven,” Tris retorted, nearly inaudible, but loud enough to fill the whole room; and Jerry was stretching his hand out towards her. She gripped it like a life belt, and she couldn’t remember anything in her life ever having felt so _right_ – except, maybe, holding Harry, one hand on his beating heart, during that gloomy night in Seattle.

“Thank you, Tris,” Jerry said; and then he let go, turned on his heel and walked towards the door. When he opened it, he threw a last glance over his shoulder, smiling. “I really love your music, by the way.”

And then he was gone, and Tris had to take a few moments to regain her composure, before she could go back to calling her Mum.

 

 

***

 

 

“Ms Callahan! Ms Callahan! Are you surprised about the verdict?”  
“Tris, where did you meet Eva Sinclair? Were you two friends?”

“Tris, just one question – one question!”

“Ms Callahan, what are your plans for the future?” That question seemed sensible enough to take, so Tris turned her attention to the small, pretty, red-haired ABC reporter who had asked it, and smiled professionally into the yellow microphone that was being held into her face.

“Let’s just say, you’ll hear from me. Very soon. I’ve been busy writing and recording and all that jazz. Thank you, at this point, to all my fans and everybody who had my back during these trying days. You’re amazing. All of you.”

“What about your personal life? Are the rumours true?” the reporter continued. “They say you’re dating a very handsome British pop star?”

Tris gave a polite smile instead of an answer, turned away and walked on, through the swarming reporters, towards the waiting limousine.

“Tris, Tris! Is it true that you and Harry Styles are engaged?”  
“Are you pregnant, Tris? Do you already have a name for the baby?”

“Ms Callahan, are you aware that-“  
The door of the car was being closed behind her, locking out the noise, and Tris let her eyes fall shut for a moment, caught somewhere between laughter and exasperation, as the vehicle effortlessly accelerated, taking her away from the court house. She nearly jumped out of her seat when a familiar voice said “Did they honestly just ask you about baby names?” in an incredulous tone.

Harry’s face was peeking around the passenger seat, grinning mischievously, and Tris broke into surprised laughter. “JESUS CHRIST…oh my God, you nearly gave me a heart attack! What are you _doing_ here?”

Harry scrunched up his face. “Well, since both our managers are adamant about the _secret_ thing, at least until our joint venture is released, I thought, well, if I can’t accompany you out of the building, at least I can wait in the car.” His grin grew right to his ears. “Shaded windows are amazing things.”

And then, impossibly, and with complete disregard for Tris’ poor driver, Harry removed his seatbelt and manoeuvred himself out of the passenger seat and into the fond, sitting down right next to Tris and smiling like a naughty school boy, while she laughed uncontrollably.

“You’re insane,” she managed, poking him between the ribs. “You’re completely insane. Come here, you crazy man. Now.”

Harry didn’t need to be told twice, and soon enough they were wrapped up in each other’s arms, kissing for a minute or two, and Tris grew aware, once again, of that incredible lightness filling her insides, enhanced, somehow, by Harry’s presence.

“It’s over,” she said, simply, into Harry’s neck, after they were done kissing, the tips of his curls tickling her nose, hardly believing it herself. “It seemed so – insurmountable. And now it’s just… It’s over.”

“You know what?” Harry breathed into her ear. “That’s half a song text.”

Tris grinned. “Maybe we should start writing when we get home.”

“Maybe we should do something else first,” Harry nearly growled it, and his hand was stroking Tris’ shoulder in a _very_ inviting way, the remnants of his kisses still prickling on her lips.

“You know, you might actually have a point, Mr Styles.” She wiggled her eyebrows up at him suggestively, and Harry laughed.

They sat in silence for a while, listening to the car cosily droning through the busy streets of New York.

“I like Zoe,” Harry said, out of the blue. “Or Chloe. Purely hypothetically. Of course.”

Tris didn’t answer, but she buried her fingers in the fabric of Harry’s paisley shirt and smiled the whole way to her flat.

She couldn’t see his face, but she was pretty sure he was smiling, too.


	20. ...But We Know Where We Belong

„One caffe americano and one chai latte with almond milk, please. Both tall and to go.”

The barista, a lanky blond guy who couldn’t be older than 19, looked at her apologetically. “We only have soy milk.”

“Soy is fine by me.”

Tris gave him an encouraging smile and shot his nametag a surreptitious look while he typed the drinks into the till. _Ben._

“That would be £ 5.70 then.”

She paid cash, and when he returned the change with the receipt, she put it straight into the tip box on the counter. “Thank you, Ben.”

Ben blinked at her, pleasantly surprised, before a slight frown settled on his face. “I don’t know you from…school, by any chance?”

“I’m from Salisbury. Other side of the country. Different country, even, to be perfectly accurate.”

He laughed. “No, you don’t really have an Edinburgh accent, that’s right. Sorry. Just – your face looks so familiar.” A small blush crept onto his pale cheeks.

“Oh, don’t worry. My face is a little nondescript. I get mistaken for other people a lot, you wouldn’t believe it.”

Ben blushed harder when Tris winked at him. She was on the verge of turning away, but he stopped her short with a slightly helpless gesture.

“Wait, sorry, I forgot to ask the names.”

“ _Beatrice_ on the chai. And _Harold_ on the americano.” She gave him a small smile as he struggled to write the names down on the paper cups.

“Good. Thank you. Umm…well. Then, um, enjoy your holidays. Are you on holidays?”

“Short ones, but yes. I’m on holidays.” Tris couldn’t help but grin at the thought of the five days still in front of her, no studio, social media and interviews; instead hours of strolling through a beautiful city, Whisky tastings and, most importantly, _Harry._ Who had made a habit of letting her get coffee during the last three days, because she could still visit a Starbucks in the UK without it taking her thirty minutes each time, with all the photos and autographs. Unlike him.

Sadly, that was bound to change soon, mostly due to the fact that her and Harry’s joint debut single _Easy In The Dark_ was currently topping the charts in the US as well as the UK, Germany, the Netherlands, France, Italy, Mexico, Argentina and _Latvia_ of all places, in its third week. The exposure in Europe by means of a poorly-lit music video wasn’t quite big enough for people to recognise her on the streets yet, but sooner or later blurry paparazzi photos of her and Harry holding hands would put a definite end to that sort of public obliviousness. The thought was slightly terrifying, to say the least.

But then, honestly, Harry had been dealing with the fame thing on the daily for about six years, wherever he went, and was fine with it; and maybe, _maybe_ the whole rumour mill of the last few months had been good for at least _something_ , acquainting people to the idea of Harry Styles and Tris Callahan as an item. _Trarry Stylahan_ had been a trending tag on twitter after the tribute concert, after all. It shouldn’t come as that big of a surprise. Still, _still,_ it was terrifying.

Tris absentmindedly plucked a black hair from her grey coat as she sauntered to the far end of the counter, where her beverages were being prepared; and then she nearly broke into laughter, because there, right _there,_ in perfect line of sight from her position was a muted screen playing the UK charts, at the moment towards the end of the current Number 2, Little Mix, with their latest single _Knees_. Perrie had actually called her up when _Easy In The Dark_ had kicked it from Number 1 after eight weeks, and mockingly complained to her, before giving her the telephone equivalent of a three-minute-hug, fantastic person that she was.

Tris sighed and her fingers started tapping a random rhythm on the counter next to her of their own accord. A part of her hoped that the coffee would be ready before her face appeared on screen for everyone in here to see, but she couldn’t really deny that there was another part of her getting a considerable kick out of exactly that prospect.

In the end, the beverages took just about a minute too long, and Tris ended up eyeing Harry’s face on screen as inconspicuously as possible: The red and blue lighting painted patterns on his skin and hair, disrupted only by the wiry shadow lines of a mesh fence, as he sang the first few lyrics, before the camera turned over on Tris’ face, fake lashes, glitter and dark lipstick, half-bathed in shadows. She was proud of the video, and she knew for a fact that Harry was, too. Alexis and Jeff had really outdone themselves conceptualising the ideas of the song.

“Beatrice and Harold?”

“Yes.”

Tris pulled her eyes away from the screen and smiled into the face of the dark-haired girl who had just put two steaming cups down next to her. She knew, the moment she looked into the girl’s eyes, that she had recognised her, as they widened in comical surprise, drifting to the screen above Tris’ right shoulder and then back to her face.

“Thank you so much.” She gave the girl a big smile, pulled her handbag on her shoulder into the right position, grabbed the two cups and left, before anyone could make a fuss.

 

 

***

 

 

Harry was waiting for her a little further down the street, his eyebrows slowly rising at the brisk pace she was setting, but he smiled back at her, when the corners of her mouth pulled upward at the sight of him. He looked utterly gorgeous in his black-in-black ensemble of skinny jeans, tailor-made coat and Chelsea boots, his hair curling down to his shoulders, eyes bright green against the grey of the afternoon October sky.

“What happened?” he asked, when she reached him, passing him the hot coffee.

“Oh, well– they played the charts in there and our music video came up. I think the barista recognised me. Cleared off, though, before she could ask any questions. This time I wanted to make sure you’re getting sensibly hot coffee, never mind being a bit rude.”

Harry laughed, and offered her his free arm. She took it. They were in Stockbridge, just outside the city centre of Edinburgh, close to the Water of Leith, where they were now headed. Tris had been there before, once, a few years ago, with her Mum, and remembered it as a beautiful place, green and peaceful, only a hop away from the high street, and yet delightfully lacking in tourists.

“You haven’t been besieged, I see?”

“Had only one photo taken while you were gone.”

Tris shot him a sidelong glance, but Harry seemed perfectly content, relaxed even, as he took the first sip of his coffee with a soft smile. “Mmmh.”

“That good?”

“Perfect. Hot. Black. Sugarless. I love it.”

“Sugarless. That’s a side of you I’ll never understand, Harry Styles,” Tris retorted with a shake of her head.

They walked in comfortable silence for a while, drinking their Starbucks and dwelling on their respective thoughts, which led to them emptying their drinks fairly quickly, disposing of their cups just before they finally turned left, to the Water.

After walking the first few meters down the path in silence, Harry suddenly gave a small gasp, and Tris chuckled softly. She couldn’t really blame him; the immediacy of the transition between city and nature was quite staggering, even for her, who’d already experienced it once. Trees surrounded them from all sides in a matter of seconds, the broad, shallow Water of Leith a smooth gurgle to their right, a small, Greek-inspired round temple elegantly fitted at the side of the empty trail before them. The crisp air smelled like autumn.

“What do you say?” Tris asked.

Harry grinned at her, wide-eyed, like a five-year-old on Christmas Morning. “This is fantastic.” He let go of her arm and took her hand instead, warm and strong, slowing them down, like he wanted to give them both time to marvel.

“It’s so strange.” The words left Tris’ lips more or less unasked for. “Just two months ago I was really fucking scared. Of court. For my career. Of the future. Now it all seems like a bad dream.”

Harry stopped in his tracks to look at her. “It is. I feel the same, quite often. Strange, I mean. Time passes, and everything that's happened, even recently, becomes so small. Like a city you leave on a plane, below you.” His smile turned somewhat wistful, and his eyes said _Seattle,_ loud and clear _._

Tris’ fingers laced with his. “And now look at us, officially co-producing songs and beating Little Mix for the UK Number One. How did that happen?”

Harry grinned at her, reflexively. “As far as I remember? Sleepless nights. Classic rock. Chocolate. Sex. Pillowfights.”

“That’s a very old school, rock’n’roll writing process, actually. Sans the drugs, of course.”

“I think the amounts of sugar we went through could very well be classified as drugs.”

“Mh, you’re not wrong. But then – it was pretty damn brilliant.”

“It was.” Harry’s smile had turned full and bright again, and Tris squeezed his fingers between hers, still a little incredulous that she was here, and he was here, and this was her new normal. Even though she couldn’t imagine that it would ever feel _normal. Comfortable,_ yes. But _normal_? _Ordinary_? Never.

“I’m still a little scared, Harry,” she said, despite herself. “Not…not _fucking_ scared. But still. Scared.”

His expression turned very serious and very soft at the same time. “What of?”

“Until now, I could always come home, to Salisbury, to my Mum, to our cats, and nobody knew who I was. I could go to London, and nobody recognised me. That’s all about to change. And very fast at that.”

“Yes,” Harry said. “It is. But that’s not really what you’re scared about, is it?”

Tris cast her eyes down to the ground, scattered brown leaves cracking under her boots. “Bloody hell.”

A finger laid itself under her chin and lifted it, until she looked Harry straight in the eye again. His expression was full of fondness. “What are you scared about?” he asked.

“It’s probably stupid. And not very grown-up. But…the whole high-profile relationship-thing that’s coming towards us at a crazy tempo? God. It...it bothers me to think that something could…not necessarily destroy, but…change. This.” She cleared her throat. “Us.”

Harry nodded, once, and then, instead of an answer, he bowed forward and kissed her on the lips, like she was something very precious. When he let go, his hands were on the nape of her neck, his forehead against hers, and Tris closed her eyes and breathed against his mouth.

“This belongs to us,” Harry said, quietly, into the small space between them. “It’s ours. Nobody else’s. Ever.”

Her hands came up to his cheeks, taking his face between them, soft skin and traces of stubble beneath her fingertips, and she realised that this was all the reassurance she needed. Nothing else, nothing more.

“Ours,” she answered. She could feel Harry’s smile against her lips, and then she kissed her own happiness back into him, her lungs full of the cool October air, and right there, between them, there was no more space left for fear.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, folks! I can't believe this story is done (especially taking into account that it was originally planned as a oneshot, and now it's juuuust below 50k; honestly I'm still a little surprised myself). I hope you all enjoyed the ride; and I very much hope that we'll hear from each other again quite soon :)
> 
> For now - thank you, all of you, for reading, and being engrossed, and commenting, and kudoing, and bookmarking; you made this SO worthwhile. Goodbye, my beautiful readers.
> 
> PS: The title is taken from "Sweet Creature" by the man himself.


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